#if my mind has any mercy it will go easy on my nightmares tonight. please.

[peatmosses]

Sorry to da mutual who’s tag I just bulldozed 🫡 havin a hell of a [checks calendar] ……. Huh.

[secondclassfangirl]

i don't love you (but i always will)

Behold my second contribution to Silverusso Day. Started writing this a while back but couldn't fit it into a proper fic, so have this ficlet? Drabble? Idk lol. The rest is under a cut because it's a little NSFW. I may end up cross-posting this to AO3 eventually. Enjoy!

Daniel covets the day he won’t need this; when his entire being won’t yearn for Terry with such a raw, inescapable hunger; when he can be apart from him without feeling the suffocating squeeze of that sweet, sweet ache.

He’s like an addict, always wanting more, never getting enough. Every sweet taste of lips and violent clash of teeth leaves him wanton and waiting for more. He craves Terry with the most unholy of hungers, drinking in every touch, sigh, and embrace with a relentless thirst.

It’s always the same. Daniel goes to him—sometimes willingly. Sometimes fighting so much inner turmoil it douses him in shame.

Funny—the shame never eclipses the need.

Then, when Daniel’s there, desperate and dazed, Terry steps close, lips twisted into that smug grin native to both Daniel’s daydreams and nightmares. His hand settles on Daniel’s hip, grip hard enough to bruise but oddly proprietary. Fond. The way a collector would handle a fine porcelain doll.

He whispers something in Daniel’s ear, words dripping with sin and implications that fan the flame of desire already burning low in Daniel’s belly. And as that voice rumbles through the lust-thick air like the smoothest velvet, Daniel’s legs part—easy. It’s so easy.

Why is it so easy?

Daniel’s always been strong-willed, but with Terry, it’s different. He may as well be a marionette, a pawn in a game of chess, for the way he goes lax and lets Terry maneuver him as he pleases.

He used to resist, when he was younger, more naïve. When he still believed his conscience could prevail over the unrighteous fantasies in the darkest corners of his mind.

The folly of youth, indeed.

He knows better now. Knows there’s no sense in fighting the hold Terry has on him—not when he’s this dependent.

Now, he can only pray it doesn’t sever.

Sometimes Terry takes his time. Sometimes he lays Daniel bare against butter-soft sheets, hands wandering, lips sucking, teeth scraping as he drinks in every inch of Daniel’s body. Like he could commit it to memory if he tried. Others, Terry braces him against the nearest hard surface in front of God and everybody, and all Daniel can do is hold on and pray it isn’t too much.

Still, there’s one constant to Terry’s conquests: He always takes him like it’s the first time. Like he can’t get enough. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

He thrusts in, hard, unyielding, and Daniel welcomes it, body and soul incomplete without this feeling of unbelievable fullness.

He used to shake with the ferocity of it, used to cry into his pillow in the early hours of morning as he remembered the ache inside him, the searing heat of his touch.

It used to hurt—still does. But now he just wants more.

“Little brat,” Terry growls, grinding in deep, so deep, oh, that’s— “Needy little slut.”

The words used to get to Daniel. And a part of him still twinges in shame whenever they spill from Terry’s lips. But then he’ll glimpse himself in the mirror, wide-open and wanton and still chasing more, and he knows Terry’s right. He knows it in his soul.

Maybe a part of him likes it.

He’s come to crave the feeling—the way the pleasure kindling within him builds, crescendos, until nothing exists but Terry and the space in which they’re intertwined. Sometimes Terry draws it out. He’s spent hours teasing him before, ravaging him, fucking him hard and deep until Daniel’s teetering just on the edge before pulling away in a blow more devastating than any roundhouse.

Tonight he’s merciful—if one could call it that. Daniel begins to tremble violently, an incoherent stream of sin tumbling from his lips, but Terry doesn’t waver, pummeling that spot deep within Daniel until it’s too much to handle and he falls apart.

And this—this is why he can’t let go. Why even though he knows, with a devastating certainty, that he should turn from this and never look back, he can’t bring himself to. Terry’s wormed his way inside him—not just his body, but his soul—until Daniel needs him more deeply than food or water or even air.

He can’t live without this. Without him.

But after—after Terry’s spilled inside him, filling him with that warmth that Daniel’s begun to feel empty without—it’s always the same. Daniel peels himself away, limbs shaky, eyes diverted, shoulders hunched, as the shame and guilt settles over him like a shroud.

Terry doesn’t say a word—just watches. His presence is loud enough.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Daniel says, the words like ash in his throat.

Terry’s eyes burn through him. “Right.”

Daniel pulls his clothes back on. He grabs his phone from the nightstand. He closes the bedroom door without so much as a backwards glance and fumbles his way through the labyrinthian mansion he’s come to know as well as his own home.  

He tells himself this is the last time.

[uchihasakurawrites]

Until Next Time

Rating: T

Summary: When ghosts from the war come back to haunt Sakura, Sasuke's there to try his hand at warding them off. A story of comfort, growth, and realization. (Blank Period)

Word Count: 3,777

A/N: Long time, no see everyone! Thank you for your patience as I’ve worked through some writer’s block the past few months. I know many of you are waiting on the next chapter for A Lesson in Practicality, but I hope you’ll still enjoy this piece. Please let me know your thoughts if you have the time! Otherwise, thank you for taking some time to read my work. ^_^

Warning: This story contains depictions of panic attacks, PTSD flashbacks, and some alcohol abuse. Nothing too dark in here since it's mainly a comfort fic, but please be cautious if any of these topics are triggering for you.

Cross posted on Ao3 and Fanfiction.net

____________________________________

Her day begins and ends the same way every other day the past year seemed to - with Sakura walking into the hospital with a confident spring to her step and a brightness in her eyes and dragging herself out (on the rare day she had the energy to pry herself from her desk) with antiseptic or blood or a mix of the two staining her hands and the lab coat she'd forgotten to peel off.

Tonight, Sakura consciously decides not to make the effort to drag herself out of the hospital. Leaving means she'll be roped into the birthday party Ino's been planning for Sai for months, and she doesn't quite have the energy to even shower, let alone paste a convincing smile on her lips.

She spares a glance at the old clock posted right above the chalkboard in her office as she shuffles in and locks the door behind her.

8:00PM.

Fourteen hours since Naruto shook her awake and thrust her straight into a day from hell.

It's still a little too early for anyone to come looking for her yet. Naruto will notice that she's not at the bar right when he arrives, but Hinata will patiently remind him of the shitshow that was today and reason that Sakura's still probably dealing with the aftermath. (In much less colorful terms, of course; Sakura's only heard her friend curse a handful of times, none of which were in front of Naruto.) That'll buy her about an hour before Ino starts making a fuss and sends Sai or Kiba out to Sakura's apartment.

If she's not there, they'll assume she's still at the hospital, and they won't come back until it's close to midnight. Not today. Not after seeing the hallways lined with burn victims pleading for someone to find their loved ones. Not after returning home and finding that the stench of charred skin and blood isn't so easy to wash out of their clothes.

Sakura didn't get to leave. Her role just changed from a kunoichi dispatched on a rescue mission to the de facto head of the hospital the moment she crossed the threshold.

She pulls the shades in hopes of convincing her friends that she isn't here if they do decide to come looking but stops short in front of the light switch. The migraine between her temples screams for her to turn the fluorescents off, but she doesn't trust her mind not to see death in the shadows of her office tonight.

She turns them off anyways.

It isn't until she's sitting criss-cross on her floor with her too-full bookshelf at her back and a bottle of sake in her hand that Sakura realizes her hands are trembling. A splash of sake makes its way onto her carpet instead of into her cup, and she curses because it's good sake - the expensive kind that Tsunade bought her a case of after the war and no no no.

She cuts that thought there because violent memories of the war, or rather the days immediately following the war, have been intruding into her mind all day and she just can't.

A case or so of sake should knock her and those thoughts right out (or so she hopes). Years of honing her skills as a medic nin have given her a certain resistance to toxins, including alcohol, and it's why she doesn't bother to drink most of the time; social drinking is more of a waste of money than anything else. She figures that's precisely why her mentor gave her an entire case as a gift.

It isn't until she's two bottles in and there's a buzzed lightness to her body that she realizes she's crying.

Her breath seems to come faster and faster, shallower and shallower, and she wonders if the buzz and creeping, cold numbness in her fingers is because of the alcohol or the lack of oxygen. She's shivering, muscles tensed to the point of pain, but she blames it on the chill of the hospital.

Another glass will knock the cold right out. At least, that's what Tsunade used to say when she drank away the ghosts that forced themselves a little too close to the front of her mind.

It's a few glasses later that Sakura starts seeing the eyes of the dead staring back at her from the shadows at the edges of her office. She's back on the battlefield, the same smell of burnt skin and the mournful cries of shinobi finally processing the deaths of their comrades hanging in the air. She's been healing for days, but she continues to push. The fighting may be over but there are still identities to confirm, survivors to heal, and families to be notified.

Sakura knew that death was part of her job description from her days in the Academy; protecting the interests of the village often required it. Tsunade had let her figure out that the same was true of her job as a medic on her own, when she lost her first patient at fifteen. She'd learned to put the deaths she dealt with in a neat little box which she deadbolted and tossed on a shelf in the deepest recess of her mind she could find.

But death was a uniquely stubborn bastard that didn't always like to stay in that box.

She'd been awake for the full three days the war had drawn on, but the medical corps was tasked with the brunt of combing through the miles upon miles of dead shinobi for another forty-eight hours or so. They'd had help, but medics were the ones needed throughout to organize, heal, or in the worst possible cases (which Sakura and Shizune handled) show mercy to the shinobi who were alive but long past the point of saving.

Sakura nearly vomits and washes the bile down with more sake. One glass. Another.

The quiet tears have turned into sobs that scratch at her throat and squeeze her lungs. Her nails cut thin crescent moons into her forearms, and her shoulders hunch as if she can ward off the prying eyes. Sakura barely has the presence of mind to activate the silencing seal in her office - the one she keeps on hand when discussing particularly sensitive cases - before her sobs grow into half screams. She can't get enough air to manage much more than a hoarse cry, but if she can just drink fast enough, it shouldn't matter.

And so she cracks open another bottle and brings it directly to her lips, trying to focus on the burn of the alcohol on her throat and Naruto's bright smile reassuring her that everything would be fine when he first found her clutching a bottle of sake in the corner of her disaster of a bedroom.

What she doesn't count on is the alcohol making it increasingly difficult to distinguish reality from the memories that have escaped from her mind and seared themselves into the darkness around her. They become more real, more tangible, until she swears she can hear the fresh widow of a shinobi from Cloud shouting about how Sakura hadn't done enough. Another voice joins until there's a chorus telling her exactly what she feared most:

There shouldn't have been so many casualties. She should have been able to do more.

She was weak.

Her tears stop for a moment when she looks up and sees Sasuke standing in the doorway. For a fraction of a second, she almost feels relieved and tries to move to go to him, but she's reminded none of this is real, and she can't be sure which Sasuke this is. Given her current state of mind, it's probably the one who haunted her nightmares for months after the bridge and still longer after his genjutsu in the war. She takes a swig from the bottle she clenches in her fist and curls back into herself.

Sasuke's repeated calls of her name fall on deaf ears.

For his part, Sasuke is at a loss. He's never seen Sakura like this (and he'd witnessed her tears firsthand on many occasions as genin). Sure, she's always worn her heart on her sleeve and been far too open with her emotions by standard shinobi rules, but she has never seemed so broken.

Looking at the scratch marks that trail down her forearms and the far too many empty bottles of sake for someone of her stature littered on the carpet, Sasuke realizes he doesn't know this woman - and in retrospect, he never should have assumed otherwise.

From her confessions both during the war and when he made the decision to leave her behind yet again, Sasuke knows she's still fiercely loyal and has a light bright enough to forgive and heal anything it touches without her needing to make the conscious choice to do so. Her skills as a shinobi have grown to the point that she could give him a challenge if they were to spar, and he's seen her heal an entire battlefield for days on end while still fighting on the front lines.

She's become more than worthy of the title of the "New Sannin," as the original Team 7 has now been christened, and she still loves him (unreasonably so in his opinion, but he's come to realize that maybe he doesn't want her to change her mind - even if he thinks it would be better for her in the long run). But that's all he knows, and he finds himself wanting to discover more of who Sakura is now.

He has years of absence and cruel actions to make up for, and far more growth beyond that to become someone who deserves the steadfast love she's always been ready to give him.

At the moment, however, he needs to get her to let go of the liquor bottle she clutches onto like a lifeline and refocus on the present. He's been trapped by his past more times than he'll ever admit, and though he hasn't had real comfort since his mother (and Sakura, he amends), he owes it to her to at least try.

Sasuke approaches her slowly, intentionally making his footsteps heavier so that she can hear him approach. Whatever nightmare she's trapped in - he confirmed it wasn't a genjutsu the moment he broke the lock on her door after an unnerving spike in her chakra - she hasn't seemed to notice he's actually here. He bites back the guilt that surfaces at the thought that he could be part of her nightmare, but that's something they can work through later.

He crouches down in front of her, taking a firm hold of the hand that clutches the bottle to try to coax it out of her grip. She jolts at the touch, peeking hesitantly up from her knees with red-rimmed eyes and a mix of tears and sweat coating her cheeks.

"Breathe, Sakura."

Her grip loosens as she meets his eyes. He sees uncertainty waver in her gaze as she hiccups in a short breath, but then the panic snaps back down and tightens her hold on the bottle yet again.

"I- I can't."

The words are stilted, as though forcing out those two words causes her physical pain. Sasuke, however, considers it a small win as it means Sakura's decided he's real. Her breathing is still far too fast, and he knows he needs to stabilize it before she's ready to explain what's happening.

It's awkward - both because Sasuke has never done this and the fact that he hasn't completely sorted through his feelings for his teammate - but he eventually pulls Sakura far enough away from the bookcase that he can shuffle in behind her. He secures his legs around her sides and arranges Sakura so that her back rests on his chest.

It's almost annoying just how snugly Sakura fits against him, her head tucked just below his chin. A part of his mind notes how her curves seem to melt into his frame only to be ruthlessly shoved down. There are priorities, and noting how the boyish (yet annoyingly charming) Sakura has clearly blossomed into a young woman is not one of them.

Where the Sakura from his memories smelled of strawberries and artificial sweetness, the woman in his arms tonight seems as though she's been doused in a pungent blend of antiseptic and ash.

"Breathe, Sakura."

Sasuke repeats Sakura's name to ground her as he starts regulating his own breath: six counts in through the nose, hold, eight counts out through the mouth. He's sure to exaggerate his breaths a bit so Sakura can feel the movement against her back. Hesitantly, his hand comes up to trail over the marks on her forearm. His hands have always been cold, so he figures the one he has left might be able to relieve some of the sting from her nails.

He makes a mental note to pick up some basic medical ninjutsu and doesn't bother to pretend it's just for field injuries.

It takes about ten minutes for Sakura's breathing to return mostly to normal. It still stutters every now and then, but she's matching Sasuke almost breath for breath. She doesn't move away from him, and Sasuke doesn't move to shift her.

As they sit in silence, save for their own breathing, Sasuke realizes he's put himself in a position where he needs to actually start the conversation. There's no bright chatter, no smile to coax him into talking. Again, he's at a loss.

It seems this new Sakura has retained a talent for doing this to him.

Annoying woman.

"Tell me about it."

Sakura immediately shakes her head, breath trembling yet again. Sasuke sighs and guesses he should have known she wasn't going to make this easy for him. He can't blame her. If someone asked him to do the same, he would have told them to fuck off.

"Sakura."

She turns to him with a dangerous look in her eyes, a cold jade that threatens to cut him if he pushes too far. Sasuke's always been the best at serving the very same look, but it's unnerving to see it etched into Sakura's soft features.

"Dammit, Sakura. Just talk to me."

Her gaze grows warmer, but not in the way he wants. She's angry, and Sasuke isn't really sure how he could have pissed her off in just six words. Sakura being Sakura, she of course makes the reason for her anger clear immediately.

"And why the hell do I need to do that, Sasuke?"

Sasuke nearly winces at the dropped suffix on his name and tries to remember how his mother handled it when he refused to confide in her.

"You haven't been here" - even Sakura knows this is unfair as she says it, but the confusion, grief, and alcohol clouding her mind make it difficult to acknowledge how much the man she loves has grown to be able to offer this to her- "and you never told me anything when I asked you to. So fuck off, Sasuke-kun. I'm sure Naruto's expecting you."

Naruto most definitely wasn't, but Sasuke doesn't see the value in pointing that particular fact out. By the time he got to the village and was promptly dragged into the bar he had made the mistake of walking past on his way to the Hokage Tower, the idiot was already drunk off his ass. Ino was as well, so Hinata asked Sasuke if he would mind going to check on Sakura at the hospital since she and Sai needed to stay to take care of their significant others.

Sakura finally moves to get up, tipping over a half-full bottle of sake in her efforts, but Sasuke can still see the tremors in her hands and the familiar strain of a jaw clenched against tears. Her eyes still dart towards the corners of the room.

Sasuke's well aware of the ghosts that can haunt those shadows and resolves to help Sakura put hers to rest, even if it's just for the night. His legs tighten around Sakura before she can fully pull away from him, and she falls back against his chest with a huff and a glare that's more tired than venomous.

Sasuke sighs and lowers his head. His bangs cover his eyes as he decides to voice at least part of the feelings he's managed to process regarding Sakura. He's not sure exactly how to categorize how he feels about her yet (mostly because his mind still can't comprehend why someone so bright has loved him through so much darkness), but he wants to help and that's about all he can offer her at the moment.

She deserves more, so much more, but he hopes it's enough for now.

"I'm here, Sakura."

He wants to add that he's not going anywhere because someone who will stay is only a fraction of what Sakura deserves, but that's not a promise he can make.

He feels Sakura's surprise as she stiffens against him, and her breath stops altogether for a few worrying moments. Sasuke wills himself to stay relaxed at her back, still maintaining a steady breathing pace should she need the rhythm again.

Sakura's thoughts are a whirlwind that she tries to grab ahold of but slips right through her fingers. She's torn, half of her mind shattered glass that urges her to open up and share even a part of her pain so that she can just stop breaking. Sasuke's here, showing his own vulnerability (however slight) in hopes that she'll trust him enough to do the same, and she's not sure when she'll experience this side of him again.

The other half, near-solid stone with only spiderweb cracks, whispers that voicing the memories that haunt her will only confirm her weakness in Sasuke's eyes. Instead of seeing the warrior who destroyed the ground and healed thousands in the war, he'll see the wisp of a girl who had trailed behind him as a genin.

It's the gentle, unconscious stroke of Sasuke's thumb across her forearm that makes her decision. Sasuke can sense the shift in Sakura as her head drops back onto his shoulder and her eyes squeeze shut. She's tired, so tired.

"I killed them."

Her voice breaks in the middle, and Sakura hisses out a quiet dammit at her traitorous voice. Sasuke's hand tightens where it rests on her arm.

He's quiet for a moment. Outside of discussing strategy or the details of a mission, talking isn't something Sasuke has much practice in. That, and his plan may have ended at getting Sakura to calm down enough to breathe properly.

He spends another minute in silence, growing increasingly frustrated with his inability to find the words he needs to comfort the woman who has always known exactly what he needed to hear. Sakura, however, doesn't seem to mind the silence as she relaxes against him. Green eyes crack open, and though they're still muddled with pain, he sees a steady glimmer of trust and contentment behind them that immediately quells his frustration.

The open trust in Sakura's gaze reminds Sasuke that she's never expected him to be anyone other than himself. She's always been patient, meeting him more than halfway as he seemed to take one step towards her and two or three back.

He suspects it's the same now, as there's no expectation in her eyes, no tension in her body that suggests she's irritated by his silence. So instead of pushing himself to think of the correct words to fill the empty space, Sasuke pulls her more firmly against his chest and shifts her so his chin rests lightly atop her head.

It's more affection than he's ever shown, and it's far from comfortable for him, but Sasuke knows that Sakura's worth a bit of discomfort.

Just as Sakura has spent so many years steadfastly waiting for him to come to her, he settles in to wait for her to tell him - whether that time comes tonight or later down the line.

That time doesn't come tonight. Though she trusts Sasuke with her life, Sakura can't quite break through the insecurity that he'll find her weak the moment she says anything more. Maybe it's not a fair assumption to make, but most of her memories of them together on the battlefield ended in Sakura being treated as fragile - something to be left behind and protected.

Even if they made progress during the war, Sakura's not quite ready to test the durability of the picture of strength she painted as she threw herself at Madara or took on a goddess at her team's side.

Instead, she's happy to just let his presence ward off the shadows in her mind. The voices are silent at his touch, so she decides to just enjoy the rest and wrestle with them when they inevitably come back after Sasuke's gone again.

Sasuke feels Sakura's breathing even out and watches her eyes flutter closed as she falls asleep against him. It's an interesting thing, having someone trust you so fully that they're willing to be at their most unguarded.

And he's done nothing to deserve it. He knows this, and it merely strengthens his resolve to continue his journey of atonement so that he can become someone who's at least a fraction deserving of Sakura and all that she's willing to offer him.

As he maneuvers himself out from behind Sakura and shifts her onto his back, Sasuke realizes with a tinge of bitterness that this is something he could have every day - Sakura's presence and everything bright and loving that entails. But as much as he wants to be there when she wakes up and finally say yes to taking her with him, he's not quite ready for that step.

There's more growth to be had, more relationships to mend, more emotions for him to reconcile within himself. While he knows having Sakura by his side would expedite the process of mending bridges and healing his own wounds, she needs to keep some of her light for herself.

When he leaves this time, it's out of consideration not just for himself, but for both of them. He can just make out the time when he asks Sakura to join him on his journey in the near future, but it's not now. They both have steps they need to take before they're ready.

He leaves Sakura tucked under the nest of far too many blankets she's always stubbornly kept haphazardly strewn across her bed, with a simple note on her nightstand:

Next time, Sakura.

[adarlingwrites]

Taste

Summary: The blue bard is sickeningly sweet for Astarion's preferences, but he'll never forget her taste.

Author’s Notes: Taste is a collection of retellings of Astarion's scenes with the player character from the Baldur's Gate 3 early access, but with a little more embellishments. Plus, it has glimpses of my tiefling's backstory.

I had horrible, horrible artist's and writer's block and I needed to get this out of my system to get the creative juices flowing again. Please excuse any typos or lack of quality.

Larian give us the bard class pls I am begging of you

I - Blueberry Wine

The time for rest has come.

Bedrolls are strewn on the campgrounds, and most of its inhabitants are already asleep. Nothing can be heard save for the crackle of fire, the chirp of birds in the woods, and soft snoring.

If it wasn’t for their common goal of removing those damned illithid tadpoles from their heads before they undergo ceremorphosis, the members of this party wouldn’t even spend five minutes within each others’ presence. Now, they’re sleeping in one place. It takes some measure of trust for that.

The dreams of the tiefling in their ragtag group aren’t sweet tonight, to say the least.

Brows furrowed as another nightmare wormed into her psyche, the tiefling tosses and turns in her bedroll, a thin film of sweat giving her forehead a slight sheen in the firelight. Eyes shooting open, she choked back a gasp, lest she wake up her companions in the camp. The crackle of the campfire and the smell of burning wood gave her some semblance of comfort, at least, reminding her of distant memories.

A warm hearth, a kind face, the smell of freshly baked blueberry pie; simple comforts from her youth that she missed terribly.

The comfort that accompanied the nostalgia was enough to make her drift back to sleep. Woefully, it didn’t stop the nightmares from coming back, now centered around the tiefling’s early years.

Small, bare feet pitter-pattered on the wet pavement, frantic gasps escaped her dry mouth. Choking back a sob, more people went after her, shouting, hurling words that scraped her heart.

“Stop! Thief!”

“Devil!”

“Slay the demon!”

Lungs burning from exertion, the little tiefling whelp coughs, rasps for air, and slides under a cart. In the dark, she can see a narrow alleyway, which she scurries into. The men run past her hiding spot, cursing and muttering amongst themselves. Relief floods through her as their torchlights grew dim.

Safe, at last.

Her trembling arms had been holding on to precious cargo; a stale loaf of bread, wrapped in linen. It’s not a delectable morsel of steak, or rich bone marrow, but it’s better than the rocks she grinded with her sharp teeth for breakfast.

As she takes it out of the cloth, a stone drops in her stomach and horror twists on her young face. The tiefling isn’t holding a loaf of bread, but a severed head of a drow. A scream threatened to escape her throat and pierce the night air, but the tiefling maiden could only gasp as she felt a presence behind her.

Wine red eyes still heavy with sleep met with alert, ruby ones. She isn’t dreaming any longer.

In the dim firelight, she sees him. Astarion.

Truth be told, she doesn’t quite know what to feel about the posh elf. Astarion’s handsome face and fair curls are easy on the eyes, but it only reminded her of how hellish she looks in comparison due to her infernal ancestry. His sharp, calculating eyes puts her at unease, even when his gaze isn’t directed towards her. He has a way of making people feel beneath him, like vulnerable prey. Serenity is not exempt from that, despite her efforts to be pleasant to him. Not to mention, Astarion’s attitude and mannerisms reminded her of the uppity nobles she had the displeasure of encountering in her colorful past.

In short, he’s a handsome fellow with a revolting attitude, at least to Serenity’s standards. Lust and indignation battles with each other in the tiefling’s psyche.

It doesn’t help at all that the elf is fond of calling her pet names, such as “sweetheart” or “dear”. No one calls her such sweet things with genuine intent, not after she saw the drow’s head on a pike, and to hear them from his condescending mouth stirs something dark in her heart.

It especially inflames her whenever he calls her “darling”.

She wanted to pounce on him. However, she wasn’t sure what she wanted after that.

Tear his pretty face asunder with her nails and watch his handsome features contort in agony, perhaps? Or watch him writhe underneath her in a more… carnal manner as she takes out all of her frustration by mashing her ravenous mouth against his lovely lips?

Maybe both?

“Oh, Serenity. You have no need for that sort of… decadence,” she thinks to herself.

Alas, her body says otherwise.

“Shit,” he says upon meeting eyes with her, distracting the tiefling from her thoughts. Serenity didn’t expect such a vulgar word to come out of his pretty mouth, and she didn’t expect the gleaming fangs inside of it either.

How could she not see it the first few times?

The dead boar they found on the road, the fact that she had never seen him consume any food, and the wolfish way he eyes her neck when he thought she wasn’t looking should’ve given it away.

Astarion is a vampire. Worse, he's a vampire who’s intending to sink his teeth in Serenity’s neck.

Whatever terrible things she secretly wanted to do to him, she had no chance of enacting them in this situation. Hells, if anything, Astarion is the one with the capacity to do terrible things to her. The tiefling will be at his mercy, if she doesn’t act fast. So, why isn’t her body doing anything to move?

Heart racing, she needed to say something, at least.

“Stop,” Serenity warns him, voice low, baring her own sharp teeth. The tiefling had considered smashing her precious lute over his head as a last resort. Before the bard can lash out, he pulls back, alarmed.

“No no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!” Astarion hastily blurts, panic evident in his voice. “ I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed- well, blood.”

The elf’s admission confirms it; Astarion is a vampire, a creature enslaved to sanguine hunger.

At that moment, an expression that Serenity hasn’t seen on the elf before twists his features: guilt. The vampire knew he’s betraying her trust, and it shows.

“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?” Serenity asks, on guard now, but still sitting on her bedroll.

Eyes widening, Astarion’s tone becomes defensive. “I’ve never killed anyone!” he exclaims. Then, his expression turns grim. “Well, not for food. I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds! Whatever I can get.”

The lass feels slightly reassured that she’s not dealing with a blood-sucking serial killer, but the possibility of him lying puts her on edge again.

“But it’s not enough,” the pale elf speaks again. Serenity half expected him to say this, he did try to bite her after all. “Not if I have to fight. I feel so… weak.”

And there it was, the last thing she expected from him: vulnerability. His reluctance to show weakness was written all over his face. Perhaps it wounds his pride? Regardless of the doubt she has for him, it changed Serenity’s perception of the vampire ever so slightly.

“If I just had a bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Astarion saying please? Is this a dream?

Still, the tiefling wanted to dig deeper at the truth. Brows knitting together in concentration, she knew better than to use the tadpole, but the damn thing established a psionic link with other infected individuals. 

Serenity pushes into the vampire’s mind to search for the truth.

“I- what’s this? What’s happening?” Astarion blurts, experiencing slight discomfort from the intrusion.

Pushing deep into the elf’s cracked and quivering memories, Serenity strains as she sifts through centuries worth of them, until she has reached its heart. There, she found herself in Astarion’s shoes; quite literally. She sees dark eyes that commanded her to feed, and instinctively, her body follows suit. Serenity, experiencing this through Astarion’s memory, opens her mouth, biting down, but not into a tender, pulsing neck. Though she wanted to recoil in disgust, there was no other choice; she couldn’t physically resist. The choice had been made for her- no, made for Astarion.

Astarion’s fangs pierce the twisting body of a rat - the only thing his master allows him to eat.

In return, Serenity’s own memories leak through the cracks of her psyche, and Astarion finds himself in the body of a wee girl with horns too big for her head. Ravenously, he inhales the sweet, buttery aroma of a freshly-baked pie resting on a windowsill. Astarion’s hands, now small and of bluish color, reach for the baked good with caution. A warm, ash-colored hand presses on his shoulder, and he sees the smiling face of a tall, drow man. Instead of hurting him for attempting to steal, the dark elf ushers him to a table, and offers him a slice with a compassionate smile. Serenity will never forget her first taste of the buttery pie crust, the sweet blueberries, and a hint of lemon and salt.

Now, Astarion will never forget that taste, either.

The connection between them severed, Serenity takes a moment to collect herself.

“You ate animals because you were forced to. Not because you wanted to,” she mumbles, eyebrows knitted together. Is it sympathy? Or perhaps his experiences reminded her of her own relationship with food?

Whatever it was, the tiefling’s perception of Astarion drastically shifted. On the surface, Astarion is a noble who turns up his nose at folks like her, but in truth, he suffered under the hands of a cruel master.

Being a pompous ass is a defense mechanism for him.

“I- yes,” Astarion says with resignation. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So, you can see why I’m slow to trust you,” he continues, and Serenity swore the expression he wore on his face tugged a few strings in her heart.

“But I do trust you, and you can trust me,” Astarion tells her.

Serenity thinks it might not be fair for her not to. How can she say that she can’t, after she saw his past for herself, and he didn’t show any hostility towards her for intruding upon his darkest, most haunting memories?

“I do. I believe you,” the bard responds, and she can hear his relief when he mutters “Thank you.”

Perhaps Serenity had judged him too harshly in the past. The drow who took her in cultivated compassion in her heart, and it’s beckoning to her.

“Do you need blood?” Serenity asks him, and there is genuine surprise on his face.

“I was about to ask,” he tells her, expression shifting into something more pleasant. “I only need a taste, I swear.”

“As long as you don’t take a drop more than you need,” Serenity replies, loosening her clothing slightly, her smallclothes peeking through.

“Really?” he asks, and he sounds almost eager.

“I- of course. Not one drop more.”

That damn vampire flashes her a smile that sends lightning rippling through her veins.

Astarion’s yearning eyes flicked to her exposed flesh, barely making out the purple tinge on her bluish skin as blood rushed from her chest to her face. Seeing where his eyes are roaming, Serenity feels her heart racing faster, and she swiftly lies down, back turned away from him. The tiefling bard is not about to let her companion see her flustered state.

Face inches away from her head, Astarion catches a whiff of the tiefling’s scent. He quietly thanked the gods that she didn’t smell of sulfur or rotting meat; instead, the bard smells of ash from freshly burned incense, laced with a warm, spiced scent.

The vampire holds her gently, delicately, until he strikes.

Astarion sinks deep, fangs like shards of ice piercing her neck. Serenity lets out a gasp, and her face contorts into an expression of pain and discomfort. Thankfully, the pain is quick and sharp, and as the vampire continues to feed, it fades gently into throbbing numbness. The bard feels her blood coursing through her body, into Astarion’s mouth, who sucked and slurped it hungrily.

He leans forward, one arm almost draping over the bard’s torso to support his weight, while the other still holds her head. Palm running through her short obsidian hair, he stops as they touch one of her horns, hand enclosing into a fist around it. Gently tugging, the elf tilts  her head for better access.

Astarion’s lips are wet from his meal’s blood and sweat, and his own saliva. They glided on the sensitive skin ever so slightly as he pursed them and sucked harder. Serenity found her breath catching in her throat from his actions, pulse quickening as her hand flew to grasp Astarion’s arm, filed fingernails turning white at the end.

In a figurative and literal sense, she’s holding on to dear life.

“Ah, Astarion, that’s enough,” she mewls, hand moving to grasp his hair, fingernails running through his scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough for the vampire to snap out of it due to the sensation it produced.

The vampire moans, almost carnally, then it is followed by a surprised, questioning grunt. Serenity’s pleas, and the scrape of her fingernails took him from his trance-like state. Immediately, he removes himself from her neck, swallowing thickly.

“Oh. Of course.”

Serenity sits up as he pulls back, light-headed from the blood loss. She turns to the pale elf, her breathing ragged as her fingers gingerly pressed on her bite wound. The tiefling felt a blush creep on her face, neck, and pointy ears as she gazes upon Astarion’s face. In the firelight, she can see that his pupils are blown out in ecstasy, and blood is trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“That- that was amazing,” Astarion purrs, wiping off her blood and bringing his fingers to his mouth, savoring it to the last drop. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel…”

He pauses, and Serenity stopped breathing for a moment.

“Happy,” he continued, sighing in contentment as he gave her a gentle, genuine smile.

Serenity had to blink a few times to confirm that she wasn’t seeing things.

She clears her throat, hoping to dissipate the delicious tension between them. “I look forward to seeing you fight,” the bard says to him, drawing her knees to her chest.

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion responds, bowing ever so slightly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

The pale elf turns around and just like that, he is back to normal, snobbish self.

Serenity slumps back on her bedroll, exhaling slowly as her heart finally slows down. Her body crashes from the surge of adrenaline and the blood loss. Turning her head, she watches as the elf stalks towards the forest; stronger, more confident, and ready to hunt.

“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion tells her, back still turned from her, looking over his shoulder.

“I won’t forget it.”

Serenity won’t forget it either.

It didn’t take long before Astarion found a deer in the forest. As he drank the beast’s blood, he couldn’t help but compare the taste to Serenity’s blood. The animal is more filling indeed, but now? Nothing compares to the taste of the tiefling’s delicious blood.

She is the first humanoid he ever tasted, after all.

And how will he describe her taste?

The darling tiefling is bubbly, gentle, and sweet, much like her demeanor; almost sickeningly so, for his standards. It’s comparable to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose’s blueberry wine: a fragrant dessert wine he had the pleasure of consuming with delicate cheeses and light cakes back when he didn’t have any fangs.

Or perhaps he had associated her with the fruit due to her memories mingling with his.

Either way, when he said that he won’t forget it, he wasn’t just referring to the favor she did for him. Astarion was referring to Serenity’s taste as well.

Meanwhile, in the camp, Serenity draws her lute to her chest, plucking the strings softly in an attempt to lull herself to sleep. It doesn’t ease her into slumber like it usually does. Sighing, she squeezes her thighs together, heat pooling between them as she recalled the vampire’s lips on her pulsing neck. Perhaps it’s not the lute that she should be plucking at.

Reaching into the waistband of her trousers, the bard gives in to her secret desires.

At least there weren’t any more nightmares for the night.

[themadlostgirl]

Abandoned (3)

*Finals are almost over! That has nothing to do with this chapter I’m just happy.*

~~~

It had been several days since Pan had left me with that sack of food and the news that my father had traded me away for freedom. I refused to believe it though. It was a lie. It was a lie to get me to stop believing in papa.

The music from Pan’s pipes could take my memories but that didn’t mean I was going to let them go without a fight. I wrote down everything I could remember. I sang shanties every night over the sound of Pan’s music. Tonight was no different. What I sang wasn’t a shanty though. It was something much softer.

“My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind, and my father won't slight you for your lack of kind." And she stepped away from me, and this she did say,” I struggled with the next line, it was right there on the tip of my tongue, “And this she did say...she did say…”

“Ugh!” I flopped back against the sand, “What did she say?”

Papa sang this to me every night when I was little. Or was it every time I had a nightmare? Everything is getting so hard to remember. Did papa sing it to me at all or was it a song one of the others on the ship sang? Or maybe it was a song I had heard at a festival or maybe a tavern?

It feels useless. I can’t even remember the next line of a song!

I pulled the pocketwatch from my pocket and stared at the unmoving hands. Pan’s unwanted words started to echo in my head.

You really do not want to face the truth do you?

No.

You wanna know how I know that he isn’t coming back for you? How I know he abandoned you here?

It’s another lie. Another trick.

He left because I told him to.

Papa wouldn’t abandon me. Papa wouldn’t trade me away!

Adults are so disappointing, especially parents. Selfish enough to sell their own children off to make their lives easier.

“Papa, please,” I whispered to the night air, “Please come back. I know you didn’t leave me here on purpose. You’re gonna come back but it needs to be soon. Please papa...I miss you.”

A soft melody broke through my quiet sobs. I turned around and stared into the jungle. I could practically see the notes floating out from the darkness and wrapping around me. I stood to my feet. Letting the music take me closer to the jungle’s edge.

I followed the song into the jungle. It was trance like but not in the way it had been before. I was more conscious of what I was doing. Choosing to follow it instead of letting myself slip completely under its spell.

After a while I could make out the glow of the bonfire in the distance. The music was coming from the camp as I knew it would be. I could just walk in. Pan had said that I would be welcome. I could join the boys dancing around the fire. I could sit and listen to their stories. We could play games. We could have fun. We could be a family…

Family.

I don’t remember much about about my family. I do remember one thing though. Papa taking me above deck the day after mama died. We stood before the crew and he said that though one of us had fallen it did not mean we were alone. We were a family by more than just blood. We were a family by choice. That was a bond stronger than blood.

Where was that bond now? Where was my family now?

The warmth drained out of me all at once and I stepped away from the camp. I need to get out of here. I need to get away from here!

I started running back through the darkness to get to my camp. I caught a movement out of place among the shadows and stumbled to a stop. There, calmly sitting under a tree and illuminated by a beam of moonlight was Pan. His eyes closed. Was he asleep? Why so far from camp? Why was he out here by himself? He had just been at the camp, hadn’t he?

This was my chance! I crept closer keeping as quiet as I could as I came up behind him. He did not stir. His even measured breaths assuring me he was fast asleep. The music ended tonight. Keeping my grip tight I knocked him on the head as hard as I could with the hilt of my sword. Papa or maybe it was mama always did that to knock people out when they were down.

I kicked him lightly with my foot to make sure he was really out of it then went about looking for his pipes or anything else useful. There was nothing. No pipes. No beans. Not even lint in his pocket!

Fine. If I can’t get rid of the music I can at least get rid of him! I grabbed his arms and started dragging him back to my camp. I silently prayed that he’d stay unconscious long enough for me to get him back which by some miracle he did. I grabbed a length of rope and tied his hands behind his back and bound his legs together. I also wrapped a scarf around his mouth for some personal satisfaction. No big words were coming out of his mouth now.

After I was sure he was secure I hauled him into the rowboat and took either oar in hand. My single person rowing was not the best and the added weight didn’t make it any easier but I had already come too far. I rowed us out until we were in deeper waters. Being out here at night with the mermaids wasn’t the smartest decision I had ever made but I wasn’t in the mood for making smart decisions.

I sat there in the rocking boat staring at the unconscious demon across from me. The moon was bright and full casting everything in pale light. I could make out mermaids bobbing in and out of the water closer to shore. They didn’t seem to be moving any closer. Perhaps they were waiting to see what would happen. So was I.

What was I supposed to do now? Killing him would be the obvious thing to do after all the grief he has put me through. Running him through while he was still unconscious wasn’t right though. Bad form. He deserved to look his death in the eye.

I cupped some water and tossed it in his face to wake him up. He groaned as his eyes cracked open. Then they widened some more as his situation became more clear. He pulled at the ropes binding him but to no avail. He glared at me and tried to talk around his gag.

“Sorry? Have something to say?” I asked, enjoying the irritation on his face.

He continued to grumble until I decided to let him have some final words. I pulled the gag down out of his mouth.

“Why thank you,” He rolled his eyes, “I haven’t been bound and gagged in so long. What’s the occasion?”

“To victory.”

“Mine or yours.” He quirked an eyebrow up at me.

“Isn’t it obvious,” I gestured to the situation, “Out of the two of us which one isn’t being held prisoner?”

“Prisoner? Is that what you think of me, swordfish? I thought this was a bit of fun between friends.”

“We’re not friends. We never have been and we never will be.”

“Never is an awfully long time. You sure you can resist me for that long? I am a lot of fun when you get to know me.”

“I think I know you well enough. Also, I won’t have to resist much longer since I can kill you at any moment. The mermaids are wading nearby and I’m sure they’d love a late night snack.”

“You brought chum for them? That’s awfully sweet for a hoard of bloodthirsty half-fish.”

“Will you stop.” I pointed my dagger at him, “Stop acting like you don’t care. I understand wanting to go to your death with dignity but you can’t be so flippant about it. Look at the situation. This is where you will die. Don’t you care?”

“Oh no, I do care. I care very much and I am impressed by this whole scene you’ve created. Job well done. I’d clap if my hands weren’t tied behind my back.”

“You are really just an ass, aren’t you?”

“Part of my charm.” he winked at me, “Please, proceed, I wanna hear where you’re gonna take this next.”

“I said to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Denying your situation. This cannot be having no impact on you.” I grabbed him by the collar, “So stop making fun of me!”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m exactly where I want to be.”

“Tied up and at my mercy?”

“Obviously. Did you really think it would have been this easy? To sneak up on me and subdue me so easily? To drag me out here without any of my boys noticing?”

“You’re saying that you let me kidnap you?”

“How else would we have gotten here?”

“No. No! I beat you! You’re just trying to turn the situation around so it looks like you have the upperhand when you know I have you cornered! I beat you!”

“Of course you did. You beat me entirely. Here I am, tied up and at your complete mercy. There’s no conceivable way this could be in my favor.”

“Then why are you talking like it is?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“Pan!”

“Let’s look at the facts here, spitfire. You snuck up on me, knocked me unconscious, dragged my limp unconscious body through the jungle back to your camp, tied me up, put me in a boat, rowed me out into the middle of the ocean, and then woke me up to lord your victory over me.”

“And?”

“Do you not see the game you’re playing. I told you once before you don’t want to kill me and here is the proof.”

“All I have to do is stab you through the heart.”

“Yes. So why haven’t you done it yet?”

The realization rocked through me like a tidal wave.

“You had multiple opportunities to. You could have run me through back in the jungle. But then you dragged me through the jungle. You could have killed me when we got back to your camp. You could have thrown me over the side of the boat to drown after you hauled me all tied up in here. You could stab me any moment you choose but still your blade stays holstered. Why do you think that is? You’re bored, swordfish. You are so utterly bored and this game between us is the only thing keeping you from hurling yourself off Dead Man’s Peak. We both know it. You won’t kill me because I am the most fun you’ve had in years! You may not like it but the truth can be hard to swallow.”

I grabbed my dagger and poised it over his heart. “I am going to kill you. I am going to stab this blade through your heart and watch the life drain out of your eyes!”

“Do it then!” He shouted, “Do it! Kill me!”

“I will!” My grip on the handle tightened.

“Come on, do it.” He urged, “Do it! Do it!”

“I--I--” My hand started to shake. “AH!” I stabbed the blade into the wood of the boat.

I couldn’t do it. Why couldn’t I do it?

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, precious.” I felt a hand run through my hair. The ropes binding Pan had fallen away and he had inched forward to pet my head. “It was a good effort. You certainly kept me on my toes and I can say that this has been the most fun I’ve had in ages. But really, do not worry about not being able to kill me. It’s a big thing taking someone’s life, especially for the first time. Although, I would have been very happy to be your first victim if you had the courage to go through with it.”

“Don’t patronize me.” I slapped his hand away. “You could get out the entire time. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was having fun. Have you not listened to a word I’ve said?”

“What kind of pirate am I that I can’t kill the one person who has given me the most grief?”

“You’re not a pirate, Lady Jones. You’re a Lost Girl.” He held out a hand, “And I am not the one who has caused you your greatest grief. We both know who is really to blame for that.”

I stared at the hand stretched out towards me. A ball of emotion caught in my throat. “He really left me...didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath and pulled the pocketwatch papa had gifted me so long ago. I opened it up and stared at the inscription. Those unwilling to fight for what they want deserve what they get. “So much of a fight you put up for me.”

I snapped it closed and threw it into the ocean as far as I could.

“I’ll row us back to shore, shall I?” Pan said after a long lapse of silence.

I sat back down staring numbly at my toes as Pan rowed us back to shore. Not a word was uttered. When we got back to shore I sat down at my camp. The only place I felt safe for I don’t even remember how long anymore. It didn’t bring me any calm this time though. All around were reminders. Mementos of a life I was forced out of by the one person I trusted most.

“Precious,” Pan knelt next to me, “You don’t have to stay out here alone anymore. Come back to camp with me.”

I turned to look at him and saw the way he almost flinched when he stared into my eyes. “If it’s all the same to you, I would much rather be alone right now.”

“Of course…” He stood up again, “You know where to go if you change your mind.”

It felt like there was something more he wanted to say but he kept it to himself. I waited until long after he left before any composure I had left me and I sunk into the sand huddling in on myself. Short muffled sobs escaping me as the last dregs of my hope were drowned.

Papa wasn’t coming back for me.

---

(Previous) (Next)

[artxyra]

In Her Darkest Moments

Note: So this story came from me listening to the song “The Bully” by Sody. If the last part seems kind of lost it because I started this on a whim and took a break to work on other projects (both school-related and personal). There might be more added to this later but I’m not sure yet. Anyways, enjoy.  

Part 1 | 2 | 3

Trigger warning: thoughts of suicide

Anger can manifest in multiple ways, but it’s what you do with that anger that can change the outcome of a single event.

~*~

Marinette may have grown used to the Lila and her classmates’ bullying towards her, but that didn’t mean she was slowly shattering. Every day was a war zone for her. Looking behind her back every second of the day, hoping that she wouldn’t stand out. But this has been going on for two years nearly three now. She can’t take it anymore.

Suicide was the easy way out, and she knows this. It was confronting her bullies and saying goodbye that was the hardest.

Gripping onto her sleeves, she covers the marks of cutting, forcing herself to acknowledge she was okay when she clearly wasn’t. No one knew she was doing this to herself, and she wants to keep it that way. No longer did she wore pink capris with a white blouse and blazer, but now a grey knitted sweater with a pair of skinny jeans and low-heeled wedges. It was a nice change, but she didn’t feel like herself in her own skin.

Walking into her high school, Dupont’s sister school, she ignores the glances coming her way. Making her way to her locker, she quickly grabs the items needed for class and scurries down the halls. Because of the lack of akuma attacks, she’s often on-time to class and gets a decent night of rest when nightmares aren’t plaguing her mind.

Her books fell from her arms. She staggers in her steps.

“Oh my god, Marinette! Why did you purposely drop your books on me?” She dreads the familiar Italian accent female. Lila could only internally smirk at her work because it wasn’t long before Alya made her voice known.

“What the hell, Marinette, that’s the fifth time this week. What is wrong with you?”

A hard jab came to her shoulders. Marinette counts to ten. Her breathing evens just enough for her to gain her bearings. She grabs her books and pushes through the growing crowd of Lila supporters. No one is never on her side anymore.

Taking her seat, she barely acknowledges the disappointed look she was receiving from Adrien. Adrien, oh sweet Adrien, the blonde model manages to convince his father to let him continue with public school under the intention of doing more photo-shoots. They barely have spoken since collége and he unknowingly played into Lila’s greedy hands.

“Good Morning class,” The teacher greets as she walks in. Marinette doesn’t acknowledge today’s lesson as her mind started to doodle in her worn-out notebook.

Lila made sure that everything good in Marinette’s life was a diminished flame. Turning the former bluenette’s parents against her was the tipping point of it all.  She would copy Marinette’s work, turn it in before the latter could get up from her seat. That would then turn into a long meeting with the school’s dean about plagiarism and dishonesty. It was a miracle that Marinette was still able to attend the school with the constant amount of this occurring.

Marinette’s safe place slowly became this Ladybug and Chat Noir theme café. She goes by there every day after school instead of heading home. It’s a great place for her to work on her projects without the fear of being judged, bullied and copied from. The owner, an older woman, grew to love the teen’s company and told her that she was welcome at any time of the day. She’ll forever remember the day that Marinette gave her the most heartfelt real smile instead of the dull, barely reaching her eyes smile. Those were the days that the two of them will cherish forever.

She sighs, pushing the unfinished work of a new design away from her. The owner notices this and looks around. There was no need to take orders; she quickly makes her over to the struggling teen.

“Is everything alright dear?” She asks, placing a comforting hand on Marinette’s shoulder.

A gentle gesture was all it took for her to breakdown. Tears stream down her face, red watery eyes glance up to the older woman breaking the owner’s heart. She hates seeing Marinette like this. Pulling the young woman into a comforting hug, Marinette cries into her chest.

“Shh, everything will be alright one day.” The owner repeats into the teen’s ear, rubbing on her back.

When Marinette couldn’t cry her eyes out anymore, she lifts herself up from the older woman’s lap to look around. The sky has darkened and there was no one in the café beside the two of them.

“I’m so sorry.” She immediately apologizes.

“Nonsense, Marinette. You clearly needed to let it all out.”

Marinette couldn’t help but look down in shame. She doesn’t deserve any of this comfort. To her, a mental breakdown went weakness and weakness is something that has been affecting her in all aspects of her life.

“I should get home.” Marinette murmurs holding herself.

As much as the owner didn’t want the teen to leave, she knew she couldn’t stop Marinette from leaving. Sighing, she hands Marinette her bags and wishes her goodbye.

Dread fills Marinette as she returns home, but something stops her from entering. Perhaps it was because of her parents and their lack of trust for her. Maybe it was the cool protective breeze of the night’s air. Biting her bottom lip, she pushes against the door and quickly makes a be-line to her bedroom.

Her room lacks its usual luster. Over the years, she slowly became dissociated from her room leaving it frozen in her middle school personality with only pops of colors representing her now.

Not wanting to go to sleep, she finds herself on the balcony watching the stars.

“You could have asked me if you wanted to stargaze tonight.”  Her frown deepens hearing one of many voices she doesn’t want to hear.

“Go away, Chat.” She demands; caring less that it will hurt his feelings, but she knows him well enough that the word “no” isn’t in his vocabulary.

“Meow-ch, Princess—” He begins but Marinette turns to him with a glare on her face.

“Don’t call me, princess. I hate it.” She states getting up from her position. Chat Noir touches her shoulder only for her to push him away.

“No, you don’t.” He tries to counter, giving her his cat-like smirk, “Your heart wouldn’t have fluttered if you didn’t.”

Marinette scrunches her face. A single tear slides down her cheek. Chat, being the heroic knight he is, pulls her in for a hug, she tries to break free but due to her fatigue, she couldn’t. Instead, she wiggles in his arms.

“Let go of me.” She demands.

“You’re kidding me?” Chat slightly pushes her away, only to take in Marinette. Her body’s shaking, her arms hugs her torso, and tears ran down her face.

“Goodbye, Chat Noir.” Marinette rush towards the trapdoor and enters it.

She wants it all to end. To be fear from the nightmare that is her life. Collapsing onto the floor, the waterworks began. Tikki finally making her presences known and cuddles next her chosen knowing it was only time before Marinette gives up.

Marinette barely found the energy to wake up the next morning.

“Marinette, breakfast is ready!” She heard her mother’s voice carry out from the lower floor.

Trudging down from her bedroom and into the kitchen, Marinette sits down and stares silently at the plate of food in front of her. This felt odd. It’s been months since her mother made breakfast for the family. Her excuse has been that the store needs more attention and earlier opening time. When was the last she saw her mother’s bright smile and not the disappointed look? Marinette couldn’t remember for the life of her.

“Um…merci, maman.” Marinette murmurs taking a small bite.

Sabine either ignored the appreciation or she didn’t hear it, causing Marinette to feel even more out of place. It was after her tenth bite, that Marinette gave up on breakfast and walk out of the room. Looking at her phone, she realizes that class was going to start soon. Opting to ditch today, Marinette changes into a simple tee and a pair of denim shorts. Maybe today will be a better a day than the rest.

~*~

Marinette was enjoying her day away from school, but that all ends when a notification came through on her phone. It was the contents in that notification that made her want to hide, to throw up, and never show her face again. How could someone be so cruel to photoshop a photo of her doing explicit poses and send it to everyone in her class? How did they even get her new phone number?

The comments surrounding the post was a mixture of good and bad. Some, those who know her, wrote that it was clearly photoshopped, critiquing the image while others were expressing their shock and disappointment in Marinette for taking such photos.  

Everything’s ruined. Her reputation (that was already on the rocks), her dreams, her life.

Locking herself in the nearest bathroom, that she could find, she collapses to the floor. Breathing became a challenge, her mind making thousands of scenarios, causing her to spin around confused and dazed. Reality began to shift into nothing. Grasping for air, she uses the sink to balance her, but no strength came to her aid.

“Marinette!” Tikki worries for chosen. She felt useless. Useless that to help her chosen, she must reveal the three-year secret that they’ve kept hidden. “I will get help. Please stay strong.” Tikki cries out, flying out the bathroom in search for help.

Marinette didn’t know how long she stayed in a fetal position on the floor. Minutes, maybe even hours there. Because the next thing she knew was the loud banging on the bathroom door. Someone’s calling out her name from the other side. The loud sound made her want to curl, even more, anything to get away from the torture that’s she experiencing.

“Marinette,” The voice calls out more clearly.

Arms surround her fragile body. They pull her in closer to their chest. She clings to the person’s shirt as it was the only tangible object that was grounding her to reality.

“I got you. You’re safe, Nette. Come back to me.” The voice whispers into her ear.

Her breathing evens.

The voice continues to repeat the same phrase as it was bringing her back to reality and calming her down. Her grip lessens on their shirt.

“That’s it, Nette. Come back to me.” He murmurs.

“Is she alright?” Another voice asks. It was feminine, something that allowed Marinette to feel safe and loved. Another pair of hands wrap around her body.

Darkness begins to fade away allowing the bright colors of images to flood her senses. Blinking, Marinette looks around and sees Kagami and Luka holding onto her. Her eyes make their way to the door where Felix stood with concern in eyes stoic eyes.

“W-w-what happened? H-h-how did I get here?” She stutters clenching onto Luka’s shirt even more.

“You’re okay, now, Nette. If it wasn’t for Tikki, we probably wouldn’t have known to be here.” Kagami says rubbing the small teen’s blue hair. Marinette welcomes it and cuddles closer to the woman.

“It was Rossi that caused this mess. I’m sure we can charge Rossi with slander and defamation.” Felix voices his opinion.

“Let’s ignore, Rossi, for a moment and focus on Nette. From what Tikki told me, this kind of behavior is becoming a regular occurrence. Which would explain why she doesn’t come to school from what Agreste been explaining.” Kagami declares with a heavy sigh.

“Should we call Bourgeois and ask for her input?” Felix suggests as his body dance subconsciously with the idea of going into the bathroom.

“No, not yet. Right now, we need to focus on bettering Nette.” Luka speaks with authority.

Felix and Kagami agrees and turns back to their now sleeping friend.

~*~

A week has passed since Marinette’s breakdown. Kagami refuses to let the bluenette be alone, so she offered her place. Marinette at first refused, but after a long talk with Felix, Kagami, Luka, and their kwamis, it was decided that she would stay.

As the days went by, the three friends to could a change in their beloved bluenette. She’s eating more and getting a good amount of sleep. Granted, there were akuma attacks during some of those days and if it wasn’t an akuma, it was Lila’s lying her way out of any situation.

Heal is always the hard part; as much as Marinette wanted to move on from this, she knows that it will only stop when Lila’s luck runs out.

Sitting down at the Ladybug and Chat Noir theme café, Marinette silently sips her coffee. The owner makes her way over to the teen and offers her another round. Marinette declines and apologizes for all the pain and concern she caused the older woman. To which the owner denies and told her that she reminds her of her own granddaughter that was bullied when her daughter and husband were living in Italy.

“I’m so sorry, what happened to your granddaughter?” Marinette asks, secreting cringing at such a question.

The owner answers with a sad sigh, “She nearly killed herself, if it wasn’t for the pets, she wouldn’t be here. Today, she’s following her dream by attending a private school across sees. You two would have gotten along very well if she was here.”

Marinette smiles, “I’m glad that she’s alright.” She replies, but the lingering thought of death managed to sneak up into her mind.  Perhaps, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my friends. Shaking her head, she focuses on her coffee.

“If you need to talk, I’m always here.” The owner quickly gestures to the café before returning to the counter to take the orders of new customers.

Marinette finishes her coffee and exits the café.

“So, this is where you sneak off to.” Felix notes with Luka and Kagami behind him.

“What are you guys doing here?” Marinette asks, hugging the blonde before the two dark hairs.

“Well classes got out early and we wanted to spend the rest of the day with you,” Kagami answers pushing a strand of hair behind Marinette’s ear.

Marinette rolls her eyes, “Well the day is still bright and I’m feeling rather famished.”

The small group of friends laughs at the grumbling sound of Marinette’s stomach.

All it takes is for one grand action to make someone feel loved in their darkest moments.  

Part 2

[noocturnalchild]

SEALED IN MARBLE  Chapter VI Temptation for Dinner

Hot breath on his face, pretty curls caressing his cheeks, heavy lidded eyes burning holes in his soul, as her hips initiated a slow dance on his groin. He inhaled sharply, and his hands traveled to meet them, revelling in the feeling of satin soft sheets, seeking her flesh through the drapery. The touch felt deliciously sinful in its smoothness at first, and his lids fluttered, pleasure sinking in his guts, as his fingers started to dig, kneading the nymph like flesh of her thighs, then just when he was lost in his desire, his nymph started to morph, edges tickling his finger pads, quickly growing and pointing. He opened his eyes, panic overcoming him, and he looked at her, her lips twitched in a smirk Garupe only could qualify as… evil. His frightened eyes looked lower, at the place their bodies met, and he was horrified. Scales like those of a snake had replaced the silky skin, and there were no hips anymore, just one merged shape, snake belly, capturing his hips in a deadly grip , winding around him, tighter and tighter as his breath left his chest, emptying him of life…

Garupe startled awake. Sucking in a long shaky breath, he straightened in his drenched sheets.

Holy Jesus!

He reached for his body, it was just a nightmare. A nightmare that left him sweaty and… hard.

Mary have mercy.

He closed his eyes as the first words of Ave Maria left his trembling dry lips. He couldn’t finish, ashamed and frustrated. A deep grunt echoed in the barely lit walls of his room, as he shifted uncomfortably in his bed, seeking his water carafe beside it just to find it empty. Father Garupe almost sobbed. He was painfully hard, straining in his thin night clothes, his hands fisting the scratchy sheets, resisting the soaring temptation to touch himself and alleviate the humiliating pressure. He hadn’t felt like that for years. He had domesticated his instincts and carnal desires long ago, and it was one of those accomplishments that a man of god was proud of, giving him that heady feeling to be above men, and he was, he was until he saw her pretty mouth, whispering lavishly a name that wasn’t his, her lips, smiling seduction, chewing on the wood of her tools.

Garupe whimpered, mind foggy and full of her, as his hand reached for his length.

God forgive me

It didn’t take him long to finish, eyes tightly shut, head thrown backward on his pillow, thick locks of hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck as his mouth parted in a silent cry of ecstasy. Images of her flashed under his eyelids, fragments of memories of her touches that diluted as he came back from his high, guilt already tugging at the back of his mind.

He cleaned himself hastily, thinking of an early morning bath, before his brothers awoke. That dinner next day, he promised himself firmly to not go, as he joined the barely comforting warmth of his mattress, mind holding on to the thin consolation this thought provided.

*

“One of my dear faithfuls is very sick, in his dying bed, your Excellence; the family has requested my presence to administer the last rites and accompany him on his last hours… Tonight.” Francisco lied through his teeth, so easy now, he lied constantly. To the bishop, to Clarissa and most unnervingly to himself, he deceived himself into thinking he wouldn’t be attending that dinner so easily, and now…

“Go then, father, go where you are most needed. Stay as long as it takes. God bless you.”

Now he had no choice. He left the Church, jumped the fence into the woods, changed into his servant clothes without thinking. He was nervous, a little terrified; what awaited him tonight? He wasn’t used to social interactions beyond those at church… he would have to lie a lot, and he decided to avoid entering conversations as much as possible.

As he knocked on your door, he could already hear loud voices and laughter coming from the dining hall, he also caught the delicious scent of a home cooked dinner, something buttery and lovely. His mouth watered even more as you opened the door, looking like the sugariest desert, he had to swallow and blink like a blinded man.

You were wrapped in the fanciest satin gown you had. Full arms exposed as a velvety deep crimson short sleeves caressed the curves of your shoulders. Delicate creamy lace covered barely your cleavage, intricate embroideries dancing on your skin, as your chest heaved. Francisco didn’t know where to look, at the soft locks of your hair, at the glow of your skin or at your cherry lips, tainted with wine.

“Vicente!” You gave him the brightest smile, and in a blast of surprised happiness you opened your bare arms and took his broad waist in a short childish embrace that left him astounded. “…Please, come in” you breathed out, now self-aware of your move, as two dazed eyes bore into yours, black, aflame.

He followed you down the hall and his stomach did those strange flips again as you lightly tugged at his hand, guiding him.

“I’m so glad you could make it”

“Thank my master, he was really understanding. I’ve found being honest and upfront with him is the best approach” He grimaced once again at his shameless dishonesty.

The dining hall was already full of patrons, five or six sitting on a round wooden table, and Francisco noticed the wine was already flowing. You introduced everyone, all different kinds of artists, all men. Dinner was served by the small rascal himself, who kept a close eye on him, sitting by his side when he was done. You sat at his other side, all bright smiles as your scent caressed his nostrils every time you moved, always closer to his chair.

*

A few hours passed, and it wasn’t going as horribly as he had feared. Sometimes he was made uncomfortable by nosy questions and he had to make up lies on the spot. The men were all friends and were too drunk and wrapped up in each other to pay him much attention, he thanked the heavens for that, the last thing he needed was to be recognized by one of the artists present. He had been introduced as a simple model after all, so they didn’t think they had all that much in common. This left him free to steal some glances at you, laugh at your snarky comments here and there, blush when you leaned into him to whisper some in his ear. Was that some kind of flirting? He knew it was. You didn’t try to hide it anymore, the wine helping, you grew bolder by the second, and he kept smiling at you like a fool.

For high heavens, Miguel was poking him with a fork under the table, threatening to press it harder.

He had had it with little children intimidating him! But, to his relief, you went to his rescue, looking sternly at the boy. Miguel could act as an adult and think and help like one, but he was a child after all, it was past his bed time and you couldn’t tolerate any resistance.

With Miguel gone, Francisco lost some of the tension he was bearing and as his shoulders relaxed, he found himself reaching for a glass of wine, mirroring your movement as he brought it to his lips. He wasn’t a drinker, he knew he couldn’t take alcohol, but god if the whole situation didn’t play with his head. Your presence near him alone was mind blowing. He felt as elated as his first day at the seminar, everything so new and exciting. He laughed with you, revealing the crooked teeth you rarely saw, as the candle lights cast orange shades on his face and raven locks.

“Miguel seemed disappointed, don’t you think, Clarissa?”

“A little God of Mischief that dear Miguel, isn’t he” You commented kindly.

With his glass of wine half empty, Francisco laughed even more. You two locked eyes. Your eyes fell to his lips, tainted red, just like yours, and you bit your own, You could kiss him right then, as your mind swam in a sweet wined fog and you were just about to act on your instinct, when one of your guests stormed in the dinning hall again.

Agostino was an Italian painter. You first met him two years ago, while in a voyage to Florence, and you both quickly fell into an easy friendship that evolved quickly to heated sex sessions. He was a good lover, for the time it lasted, then you had to return to Portugal and he stayed in Italy, and that was it, until he wrote you, a month ago, informing you that he was in your city, working in collaboration with another master painter. You took the chance to invite him and other artists, deeming the moment right, forgetting how completely barefaced he could be sometimes.

As soon as Agostino laid eyes on you and Francisco, he knew that something was simmering between the two of you. He wasn’t bothered, you and him were history, but he couldn’t just stay silent where there was obvious entertainment awaiting him.

“Oi! Oi! Oi!” He yelled in a drunk laugh, “come here and see this!“ He shouted at the other men that were in the veranda, noisily drinking and joking. They didn’t waste a second to join him, drunken laughs melting into amused “ho’s!” when they saw you just about to kiss a very embarrassed Francisco.

“Seems like our beloved- very dear artist, Clarissa, gentlemen, hear me out … here has just found her next prey … Clarissa, oh my dear, rail him, wreck him tonight, you have my benediction- in the name of the Father- He stopped, waving his hand,  he crossed himself, and Francisco’s face couldn’t get any redder, as the others exploded in uncontrolled hiccups, laughing like madmen and whistling as they yelled too;

“Get him Clarissa!”

“Ye! Just Fuck him”

You weren’t a person that was easy to unsettle, you were never a very shy person when it came to these matters; you would laugh with them and joke with them if it was any other man, but not him. You felt horribly ashamed, for that was extremely over the top embarrassing as you saw your poor “Vicente” almost trying to hide behind a curtain, cheeks on fire, lips on fire, eyes on fire, was it the wine? You still wanted to kiss him, half of you was still ignited with want, but you just decided to put a polite end to the mockery and with a faked amused laugh you waved your hands;

“Gentlemen!” You said in a high authoritative tone “It was such an honor to receive you all here, thank you for the amazing and entertaining moments you shared with me tonight, hope that my company was pleasurable, but as you know well every good thing has an end, I wish to see you very soon, as for now I wish you all a good night” You ushered them to the door. Low grumbles of discontentment and drunken whines echoed in your ears as they stumbled on the stairs, reluctant to leave. Agostino turned halfway and gave you a loud  kiss on the cheek

“Good nigh- my dear- deeeer Clarita, and …jus…wreck him, will you? for me?” he insisted, as he fell on you, drunk as he was, and tried to regain his balance but couldn’t. You tried to detangle from him, but you didn’t have to try too hard as you saw two strong hands lift the man off you, and as you looked up, you saw Francisco’s pinched brows looking angrily at the man as he effortlessly supported him. On his feet again, Agostino mumbled apologies and tried as he could to join the others. They all waved before disappearing in the frisky night air.

You let out a deep sigh and closed your eyes.

What did he think of you now? You twisted your fingers as you turned to face him. Your heart sank when you saw him put on his cape, ready to leave too, face closed and lips in a thin line.

“Vicente” you whispered, choked in your shame “I didn’t mean you…” you said soft, very soft. Why were you always so soft with him, reducing his defenses to nothing, dust in the wind?

“I should go now, Clarissa” he sighed, “You need rest, child” he bit the inside of his cheek, the nickname always slipping out, the glass of wine not helping him at all, if anything, it was making the whole thing more difficult. His senses were buzzing, a need coiled in his guts, he was barely containing it, God! No, he was unworthy, he didn’t deserve his mercy now.

“Stay” You whispered, cheeks red, oh so red, he closed his eyes, then looked away. It was late, half of the candles had melted in their candelabrums, porcelain and silver plates feebly glinting in the half-light of the hall, curtains gently swaying with the breeze. And you were standing there, his devil-angel, draped in crimson, waiting for him. He could hear his heartbeats in the anxious silence, and as he stayed mute and waited, you advanced.

“Come, I want to work a little. Please forgive me?” So soft. Why were you so soft?

He was entranced, your hand leading him to the atelier. He kept silent, warmth seeping in him, stronger than his reason, sinking his beliefs, his principles and his faith. Far was the church and the prayers and his brothers, far was his pain and his cousin’s misfortune. Far was God.

There were your hands, gently tugging on his collar, eyes pleading.

“Can I?” So soft.

He breathed out, looking down at you. Everything was confusing. He had undressed in front of you these last few sessions, and now that you wanted to do it for him, he could barely breathe. This was different, it was something else, it was not work. It was something else, barely veiled.

But he nodded his consent. And you in that fancy dress, how could you even work? But the wine… He shouldn’t have… oh your lips… he shouldn’t.

But your hands where already on the linen of his shirt, gently popping the buttons open, breath fanning his collarbones. Slowly, you worked your way down as a frown started to form on your face and your hands stilled. Why? Why were you frowning at him? Why had you stopped, just when he was giving in, just when he wanted you to just do whatever you desired with him tonight, just when he started to hope that indeed, this, this wasn’t work.

“What… Vicente?” your voice was shaking. Why?

“What is this?”

[lailaliquorice]

even stars are small from a distance

second fic in one day babeyyyy, and to balance out this morning’s fluff now we have angst. this is for a prompt from a lovely anon which was parrlyn h/c with one comforting the other after a nightmare with kisses. hope this was ok!

I haven’t written parrlyn in ages so this is for all the very patient parrlyn friends on the sixcord who have been eagerly waiting!! it’s essentially a rewrite of ‘one more chance’ but with a lot more gay(tm) bc established relationship this time. I know everyone and their cat has written anne having nightmares but hey we love a cliche and that’s all I have to say with this one bc it’s approaching 2am and I need sleep but hope everyone enjoys it c:

Considering how their show was essentially them retelling their stories to four hundred people every night, Cathy still managed to be incredibly private about her former life. It was something that puzzled Anne but didn’t bother her at all; she knew that they all coped with their secrets in different ways and if Cathy’s method was to keep herself hidden then she wouldn’t question it. She would try and make sure her girlfriend didn’t bottle too many things away if she seemed overly stressed any time, but for the most part she just enjoyed and appreciated the privilege of being told any titbit of Cathy’s history.

But what that did mean was that when absent-mindedly scrolling through an article written about the historical aspect of the show, Anne received the unwelcome shock of her life.

It was an unspoken pact that they wouldn’t search up facts on each other’s past lives without permission, since being told to google each other’s names to get filled in during their first rehearsals felt like the equivalent of being told to nose through each other’s diaries. They all knew enough about the queens they hadn’t lived alongside through the show itself anyway. As a result the article was one of the first that Anne had ever read about their Tudor lives and for the most part there were no surprises; the only notable piece of information she tucked away being how Aragon had wanted to send Henry the body of the Scottish King she’d had killed in battle while he was away, something which spoke so true of Catherine’s power as Queen that she couldn’t believe it wasn’t mentioned in the script.

That was until she reached Cathy’s section of the article though. She’d largely skimmed through Kat’s, knowing she couldn’t read about her baby cousin’s suffering without her stomach churning, and was half-tempted to skim through the account of what the final solo didn’t include about Cathy’s life with the King for the sake of her privacy. But before she could click out of the article, a single word in the middle of a paragraph caught her attention.

‘Beheading’.

Anne’s heart rate quickened as she scrolled back upwards. There was no need to mention that in Cathy’s life story unless it was a reference to Kat’s life or her own, which she soon realised it wasn’t. Horror deepened in her stomach as she read of the arrest warrant that was sent out, how Cathy had discovered the plot to have her replaced and been forced to beg the King for her life. How she’d been forced to fight off an armed guard who hadn’t been told of the King’s forgiveness. How the stress of the discovery had made her ill.

How she’d come within a hair’s breadth of losing her life in the same way that Anne had.

Her fingers hovered over her scar as her thoughts raced wildly. She knew that Cathy had known of her in her old life, knew that the entirety of Europe had treated Anne’s death as a warning for what could happen if he was disappointed by his wife. A sudden stabbing pain in her neck forced her to grit her teeth hard, tears pricking at her eyes as she thought of just how afraid she must have been.

She longed to pull her girlfriend into a hug and promise her that she’d never let anyone hurt her again. But that want was quashed by the realisation that she could never let Cathy know that she knew.

So she shut her laptop and said nothing, just kissed Cathy when she returned from her day out with Aragon and listened intently to what the two of them had got up to. She did the show without a hitch, aside from the crescent-shaped indents she pressed into her palm from squeezing her hand closed during Cathy’s solo. And she greeted fans afterwards with no indication that anything was wrong, her voice only failing her for a moment as she watched Cathy sign beneath ‘survived’ with the awful knowledge of how she almost hadn’t.

The only time she came close to cracking was when they were both sat in Cathy’s bedroom after the show. A yawn from Anne prompted a gentle reminder from Cathy that she needed to go to bed soon, and the thought of leaving Cathy alone in the darkness made Anne suddenly burst out “Can I stay here tonight?”

Cathy blinked with surprise for a moment before she nodded. “Of course you can love, you never need to ask. Are you ok though? You’ve seemed a little quiet since I got home,” she said, a concerned look in her eyes as she met Anne’s gaze.

For a moment she was tempted to tell her everything she’d found out, but then she pictured the look on Cathy’s face upon having her privacy violated and she shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

But her confidence didn’t last for long, as her overactive mind betrayed her the minute she fell asleep in Cathy’s bed and started to dream.

The first thing Anne noticed was that she was in the courtyard by the Tower of London. Immediately she tensed; this courtyard had been the setting for many of her nightmares so it was easy enough to guess exactly what was about to happen. But then she realised that she was part of the crowd rather than standing atop the scaffold, which had never happened before. She could see the executioner’s block waiting though, her scar tingling at the sight of it, so even if it wasn’t her up there she still knew exactly what would happen.

But her grim resolve to see it through shattered when she looked to the scaffold and saw who was standing there. It was Cathy.

Anne started to struggle against the crowd as she watched her approach the block, her thin white chemise a poor excuse for armour against the jeers of the onlookers. Despite how much she tried to push forwards she found herself swept further and further back, helpless to reach out for Cathy as she walked like a zombie towards the block and knelt down. There was no emotion in the face she knew so well – it would have been easier to bear if this Cathy was the one in the portraits not the one in Anne’s lock screen but of course she wasn’t granted that mercy – until she looked up from the ground and met Anne’s gaze.

Her eyes were full of the one emotion that Anne had never seen on her girlfriend’s face. Hopelessness. And it felt like an arrow to her heart.

She started to scream as Cathy moved sluggishly to place her head on the block, ignoring the accidental blows she was dealt by the crowd’s enthusiasm. It was nothing like Anne’s own execution had been; these people were out for blood. These people wanted to see her brave, beautiful Cathy dead and the very thought made her feel sick.

By the time the executioner appeared out of the shadows Anne’s throat was raw, but still the sight of the figure from her nightmares renewed the panic pounding at her chest and she shouted even louder. She hardly even knew what she was screaming; a plea for mercy, an urgent love confession, even a desperate wish to take her place. But her prayers were ignored as the sword was raised, glinting under the cruel sunlight exactly how she remembered.

The executioner swung. The crowd roared. Screams of horror and triumph blurred into a high pitched wail as the world went white and she felt her legs folding beneath her. And then-

Anne was still screaming as she jolted awake, her cheeks ravaged by tears and her chest heaving for breath. Immediately she was attempting to stifle her cries, one hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the sound of her sobs and the other hand over her racing heart as she tried to regulate her breathing though. The usual techniques did nothing though as her brain kept replaying the image of Cathy losing her head, and she retched dryly as her stomach gave a sickening turn. Her consciousness started to blur around the edges again as her lungs ached for oxygen.

“Stay with me sweetheart, breathe for me please.”

The voice through the dark made her jump in shock, realising for the first time that she wasn’t in her own room. A fumbling sound was followed by the bedside light being turned on, to reveal Cathy looking at her with sleep-mussed hair and a stricken expression.

Her hands still trembled and the sick feeling in her stomach refused to leave but everything else stilled as she stared blankly at Cathy for several seconds while her brain struggled to catch up. But then she frantically pushed herself to her knees, not giving Cathy a chance to react as she lunged forwards and kissed her.

It was messy and desperate, but it was enough to prove to Anne that she was there.

Cathy reacted quickly enough to support Anne before she slipped, one hand on her waist and the other cupping Anne’s cheek as she kissed her back. Only a couple of seconds passed before Anne was sobbing into Cathy’s chest instead, whispering “You’re alive,” over and over again as she clung to Cathy like a lifeline.

“I’m alive,” Cathy replied in a voice so full of conviction that Anne could just about believe the warm arms around her weren’t a figment of her imagination. Her shaking limbs felt as though the strength had been sapped from them so she couldn’t do anything but sink into Cathy’s embrace, letting out a shuddering breath as she buried her face in Cathy’s shoulder and waited for her nausea to subside.

Several minutes passed before Cathy gently pushed Anne back to look at her in the eye. “Please tell me what’s wrong my love, I’m worried about you,” she said softly, tilting Anne’s chin up with her finger to look up at her.

Anne hesitated a moment longer, still afraid of Cathy’s reaction as she’d been that afternoon, but the lingering terror from her nightmare had beaten down her walls enough that she couldn’t stop the truth from spilling out. “You nearly got beheaded,” she choked out.

As Cathy’s expression fell Anne couldn’t bear to keep looking to see the rest of her reaction, wrenching her chin out of Cathy’s fingers to cover her mouth with her palm. “I found an article earlier and it said he nearly killed you too,” she sobbed, her words muffled by her hand and her distress. “And I dreamed about my execution but it was you instead and I couldn’t save you. And I’m so sorry I found out and for invading your privacy by finding out I promise I wasn’t trying to and I trust you to tell me shit but I’m just so so angry for you and-“

“Oh sweetheart, it’s ok,” Cathy said softly, her hand on Anne’s shoulder interrupting her hysterical tirade. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret because I didn’t want you to know, it was just because I didn’t want you to be upset. I promise I would have told you. One day you’ll know all my secrets love, I’m sorry I’m not better at sharing things with you.”

Her apology sounded so sorrowful that Anne looked up at her and shook her head. “Love you,” she whispered because those were the only words she could come up with at that point, too exhausted to think of anything more coherent to follow up Cathy’s comment. As a final bit of proof that Cathy really was ok she reached out to place a hand at the back of her neck, thumb smoothing over the smooth skin where Anne’s scar lay, leaning forwards to touch her forehead against Cathy’s.

Cathy smiled at her through the gloom, nuzzling Anne’s nose with hers before pulling her into a firm embrace. “I love you too, so so much,” she murmured next to Anne’s ear, pressing a kiss to Anne’s hair before resting her head atop hers.

Anne began to wonder if she was going to fall asleep resting against Cathy before her girlfriend shifted underneath her, and Anne let out a quiet groan as she sat back up. Cathy giggled lightly as she tilted Anne’s chin up again, looking at her lovingly for a moment before leaning forward to kiss away the tear tracks on Anne’s cheeks. “Do you think you’re ready to sleep again?” she asked.

“Mhm. Yeah,” she hummed tiredly.

“Alright, come on then,” Cathy said, straightening out the covers from where Anne had kicked them back and settling back down on her pillow. Once there she pulled Anne down to lay in the crook of her side, and Anne hummed contentedly as she settled with her ear resting over Cathy’s heartbeat. The low sound was enough to reassure her that her dream wouldn’t come again and Cathy was alive and right next to her, and no executioner’s sword was ever going to hurt them again.

Cathy’s fingers running through Anne’s hair made the last remnants of tension seep out of her limbs, and she sighed lightly as she hugged Cathy close with an arm over her stomach. “Go to sleep love. I’m right here,” Cathy whispered.

Anne hummed something that might have been a thanks if she wasn’t delirious with exhaustion. Seconds later she was asleep, safe in Cathy’s embrace and the promise that she was never going away.

[acourtofhopeanddreams]

Capturing the Devil

Written for day 7 of @jonsadreamofspring to fill the "Free Day"

Jon Snow and his wife Sansa Stark are famous serial killers, but they're still on the loose and free, going after those who had it coming and only have themselves to blame. People like Ramsay Bolton.

serial killer AU // TW: Violence and sexual assault

Some say that every serial killer wants to be caught at some point. Some say that the chase and all the officials slowly catching up with them is part of the thrill. Some say that without the constant treat of being caught dangling above their heads, serial killers wouldn’t feel the same satisfaction they did when they’ve managed to outsmart everyone once more.

In some cases those people were absolutely and totally wrong.

Jon had seen the change in her ever since she had killed Joffrey Baratheon in cold blood. Her back was straighter when she walked through the streets of London and the smile on her face was brighter when she greeted strangers and friends and foes whenever she passed them. She was no longer a little girl determined to prove society that she was capable of far more than they were willing to give her credits for. She was no longer a victim and she was no longer afraid of what lurked in the dark.

He had started killing because he had truly believed that science could bring back the mother he had lost. He had sought out women who wouldn’t be missed and lived horrible lives anyway and had freed them from their misery to take their organs. He had wanted to be caught, deep down knowing that what he did was wrong and that someone had to stop him.

But for her killing was like freeing herself from all the shackles she had worn for way too long. For the first time ever she was in control of her life. And finally she could judge and execute the monsters who could have done whatever they wanted with whomever they wanted for way too long already.

And even though he still needed to kill to satisfy his own hunger and needs, he also found satisfaction in watching her wield her weapons and murder men and boys who deserved it. He had already loved her long before death had buried its claws in her back, but with every kill and every dark night that passed he loved her more and more.

Her bright red hair seemed even redder when she was covered in the blood of her enemies and victims. Her bright blue eyes glimmered whenever she drank in the life of her victim fading away. And the blush on her cheeks and pearls of sweat covering her skin made it almost impossible for him not to touch her.

“Do you know why I am here tonight?” She wore a spotless white dress barely reaching her knees and she straddled the monster beneath her who had no idea what was really coming for him.

Ramsay Bolton still wore that stupid wide grin on his face and he stretched out his hand to touch her cheeks. “I always knew that one day you would change your mind and return to me begging for more.” He pushed himself up and his tongue licked her neck. His hands grabbed her shoulders and his thumbs bruised her pale, but perfect, skin. “They all come back eventually, you know?”

Sansa raised her eyebrows and Jon pressed himself against the wall to hide in the comfortable shadows. She didn’t need his help. She was not a damsel in distress needing rescuing from her husband. She was a femme fatale and the men she played with only realised they were nothing but useless and unneeded toys before it was already too late.

“I assume it is because there is a certain pleasure in pain.” Ramsay grabbed her hair and pulled her closer towards him. “When I twisted your hard nipples between my fingers you screamed, but even you couldn't tell if it was because it hurt or because you enjoyed it so much.” To prove his point he grabbed her breast and squeezed it firmly. “Shall I do it again, Sansa Snow-Stark?” He spoke softly and yet Jon could still hear him loud and clear. “It can be our little secret. No need for your husband to ever find out.”

Jon tensed all his muscles. He clenched his jaw and his fists and yet he still didn’t interfere. He knew what was coming for Ramsay Bolton. He knew what fate was waiting for the man who thought he was invincible and immortal. If Ramsay Bolton wouldn’t have been one of the many monsters scarring his beautiful bride, Jon even would have felt sorry for him. Now the moment couldn’t come soon enough, but he knew that Sansa liked to take her time.

Sansa shook her head. Her ponytail danced on top of her head and her hands tenderly wandered down Ramsay’s arms. “You are wearing too many clothes still, my lord.” She smiled when she tightened the rope, attached to the bed, around his wrist. “And Jon has taught me a few tricks I want to share with you too.” Quickly she attached his other wrist to the bedframe too. “I’m sure you can appreciate them.”

It was only when she stood up and tied his ankles to the bed too that Ramsay Bolton seemed to understand that something was off, that something was entirely wrong. The grin on his face faded and panic clouded his eyes. “What are you doing, lady Sansa?” His voice sounded a few tones higher than usual and Sansa crossed her arms over her chest while she put a dirty cloth in his mouth. Ramsay Bolton was at her mercy now. But there wouldn’t be any mercy today. Not for him.

“Jon?” Sansa held out her hand. “My knife, please.”

He stepped out of the comforting shadows and he saw Ramsay’s eyes widen when he placed the cold and sharp knife in Sansa’s hand.

“Any wishes concerning what I shall remove first?” Sansa walked back to the bed and once more she straddled the now completely powerless Ramsay Bolton. “I propose we start with the clothes.” Carelessly she started cutting the fabric. The sharp tip of her knife pierced Ramsay’s skin more than once and drops of blood rolled over his skin and stained the sheets.

“Oops…” Sansa smiled when eventually Ramsay Bolton lied entirely naked and bloodied under her. “I’m quite certain your servants have experience with bloodied sheets, right?” She cocked her head and then she looked over her shoulder.

Jon locked his glance with hers and he nodded. Even though he had killed to bring his mother back alive. And even though she killed to deal with the devils haunting her nightmares. In the end they killed for the exact same reason. To fill a void.

“Do you know what Jon likes for dinner most?” Sansa hissed between her teeth and then she curled her fingers around Ramsay’s dick. “Sausages.” She let the knife circle around the base. “And Theon told us about your secret recipe.” She cut deeper and for the first time ever tears rolled down Ramsay’s cheeks. “We however miss the key ingredient. But you are totally willing to help us with that, aren’t you?”

Ramsay shook his head, but nothing Ramsay did could change anything.

Jon knew exactly what Sansa would do. He had listened to her dreaming about it for months now. And each time her revenge grew more cruel and violent. A good husband maybe would have stopped her, would have told her to go for the easy kill. But he was not a good husband. He hadn’t been ever since he had invited death to claim his soul and had awakened the monster longing for blood in his own body.

With her tongue between her slightly parted lips she wielded her knife and a few minutes later she dangled Ramsay’s dick above his own head. “Want a taste of your own meat, my Lord?” Her hand moved to the gag, but at the very last moment she pulled her hand back. “I am afraid there is already too little for both me and Jon. I don’t want to waste anything on you.”

Jon chuckled and with his arms crossed he leaned against the wall. Sometimes there was a part of him feeling guilty about dragging her along with him, about bringing the darkness into her home and into her head and into her heart. But when he saw her like this that regret disappeared immediately. He felt the adrenaline rushing through his own veins when he watched her cut off Ramsay's nipples, one by one and agonisingly slow.

Then she moved on to Ramsay’s toes, to his fingers, to his ears and his lips. And all the while she kept talking to him. She reminded him of all the people he had killed, hurt or left scarred. She made him pay for every crime he had committed. And just when there was barely any life left in him because he had lost way too much blood and way too many body parts she pressed the cold knife to his throat.

“I should actually leave you here to bleed out slowly.” Her voice was hoarse from all the talking. “Because you don’t deserve a quick death.” She put some more pressure on the knife and it was hard to say if the blood dripping down his neck was from a new wound or from an old one. “But I am not you, Ramsay Bolton.” All of a sudden she slashed his throat. “In the end, I do have mercy.”

For a moment she just sat there motionless, then Jon walked towards her and sat down behind her. While Sansa dropped the knife he pressed her warm and bloodied body to his chest and his lips kissed her hair. “Whoever thinks they need to be afraid of me, hasn’t met you yet.” He felt her leaning back and he embraced her even tighter. “I'm afraid we will also have to kill the staff and Miranda. After all, they do know that you have been here.”

“They are all yours, Jon.” Sansa closed her eyes and she wrapped an arm around his neck. “I am satisfied.” She smiled. “For now.”

[unityghost]

Instinct

Part 17 of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels. Shelly, one of my readers over on Archive, made the following request:

I was thinking Gabriel has a nightmare one night, only in the nightmare it's Sam doing the torture in Asmodeus' place, and when Sam tries to comfort him after Gabriel is afraid to be around him and it takes the combined work of Dean and Castiel to resolve things between them.

Thank you for the suggestion, Shelly!

In addition, I asked on here what people would like to see more of in my work. The results:

Some more bonding between Cas and Gabe would be cool @mcjouska14

ooooooo I second the Cas and Gabe thing! @letbuckyeathisgoddamnplums

And finally, this turned up in a review over on fanfiction.net, from willows dancing in the wind:

I'd like to see a little brotherly bonding between Gabe and Castiel, or maybe something between Gabriel and Jack.

I hope this delivers.

Gabriel couldn’t have said what set the dream off. He and Sam - and anyone else, for that matter - hadn’t discussed either the angel blade or the archangel blade in over a week.

Nothing like this had harassed Gabriel until tonight.

He woke with his mouth already full of vomit, which spilled over the pillow, the blankets, the floor, and himself. He heard himself retching, a gruesome orchestra of terror that he knew would rouse everyone in the bunker.

The first voice was not the one he’d expected.

“Uncle Gabriel? Uncle Gabriel!”

Son of a bitch, thought Gabriel. Jack would never be able to force this image out of his head.

The light switched on. Sputtering and gasping as he sat up and hunched over the bedspread, Gabriel felt Jack lay a hand on his back, something he’d probably seen Sam do. “What’s happening, Uncle Gabriel? What’s wrong?”

When Gabriel tried to respond, all that came out was more vomit.

“Wait - ” Jack left him for a moment, then helped him hold the trash can in his lap. “You forgot about this. It was right next to your bed. Did you already know you were sick?”

Gabriel retched again, but nothing came up.

Jack put a hand on his forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

Gabriel struggled to catch his breath. “Go back to bed before you start having nightmares too.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Uncle Gabe; I can’t have nightmares while I’m awake. What did you dream about?”

“Stuff. Go away, you’re too young to watch this.”

Jack sat down next to him, unperturbed by the mess, and met his gaze. “No I’m not. I’ve seen how people act in war. When they lose their friends and family. When they’re hurt. This isn’t that different, and I feel the same way about it. I’m not scared: all I want is to help.”

The earnestness in his face was so far from the violence of Gabriel’s nightmare that, for a second, Gabriel almost felt safe.

“Should I get Sam for you?” Jack asked.

Gabriel’s breath caught. “I don’t - ”

“Gabriel!”

Gabriel froze as Sam hurried into the bedroom and surveyed the scene with wide eyes. “Holy crap, what’s wrong? Jack, what is this, what happened to him?”

“He’s sick,” Jack explained. “I think it was a bad dream.”

“Gabriel?” Sam put his hands on either side of Gabriel’s face, trying to make eye contact. “Hey, Gabriel, tell me what’s going on.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “He talked to me. Here, I can try again. Let go, Sam.”

Reluctantly, Sam withdrew.

Jack spoke softly. “Uncle Gabriel, Sam wants to help. You should let him help.”

Gabriel looked at Jack, then at Sam. “Sam - Sam, can you - I need - ”

Suddenly feeling cornered with the two of them so close, he tried to climb off the bed.

Jack pushed him back down. “Tell us what you need and we’ll get it.”

Gabriel clenched his fists in his lap. “My brother. I need my brother.”

“Let me find him then. Hold on and he’ll be right in, okay?”

“No, no - Jack, don’t - Sam, can you get Castiel? Please?”

Jack looked surprised and Sam disconcerted. “Gabriel …”

“Please!”

Alarm flickered over Sam's face. “Okay. It’s okay. Wait right here.”

As Sam left, Jack frowned at Gabriel. “Why are you afraid of Sam?”

Gabriel didn’t answer.

Jack offered his hand, palm up. “He told me you like this.”

Gabriel stared down at Jack’s hand for a moment, then accepted it and allowed Jack to hold it in a gentle grip.

Castiel entered the bedroom. His eyes fell upon Gabriel, drenched in his own vomit and holding Jack’s hand.

Cas didn’t appear surprised. “Gabriel, come with me. We’d better get you cleaned up before anything else.”

Gabriel removed his hand from Jack’s. Jack went to help him stand, but Gabriel said, “Nah, stop. Don’t want you getting all muddied up too.” He tried to smile. “I appreciate it, little guy.”

Castiel waited for him to reach the door. “Do you need help getting to the shower?”

Gabriel shook his head, too humiliated to offer any response.

“Let me get you a change of clothes. You’ll feel better once you’re not soaked in bodily fluids. I’ll wait outside in case you need anything.”

“All right,” Gabriel muttered, avoiding Castiel’s eyes.

Some fifteen minutes after that, Gabriel found that his brother had been right: cleaning himself off and changing out of his soiled pajamas proved soothing. They moved to Castiel’s room, which was such a far cry from Gabriel’s it was almost laughable: the carefully made bed, rarely slept in; the clean floor, hardly ever stepped on; the nightstand, bare and dustless.

“Sam tells me you didn’t want him near you,” Castiel remarked as they sat down together.

Gabriel nodded, staring at his knees.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Gabriel plucked at a piece of lint stuck to his shirt. “I don’t know. It was pretty screwed up.”

“Then what would help you?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

Before Castiel could reply, there was a gentle knock on the doorframe. Gabriel was surprised to see who it was.

“Can I crash the party?” asked Dean.

Gabriel gave a grim smile. “Looks like I’m everybody’s favorite guest of honor.”

Dean sat at the foot of the bed. “No Sam tonight, huh?”

Gabriel turned away.

“When I saw you guys coming in here without him,” said Dean, “I figured maybe two pairs of hands were better than one.”

“You mean you thought Cas could use some backup. Well, you’re probably not wrong, Dean-o. Who's to say what kind of havoc I might wreak to scar my baby brother tonight?”

“Come on Gabe, go easy on yourself.”

“Pfft. Anyway … did Sam tell you?”

“That you voted him off the island? Yeah. But honestly, I don’t think he was that surprised. Said it looks like you had a bad dream about him.”

Gabriel gave a noncommittal grunt.

“I mean,” Dean went on, “His maternal instincts are screaming bloody murder right now, but he understands why you need some space.”

Castiel laid a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “And what would you like from us?”

Gabriel kept his eyes on the floor, wishing he could provide a solution.

After a few moments, he said, “I feel bad the kid got a front-row seat.”

Castiel frowned. “Gabriel, Jack is - ”

“I know, I know, he’s fine. He’s seen a crap-ton of death and destruction courtesy of my interdimensional douchebucket of a brother. All the more reason to spare him any superfluous freakshows.”

Cas gave Gabriel a worried look but didn’t say anything else.

Another pause, and then Gabriel spoke once more. “We talked about the blades. Sam and me. Did he send out a memo?”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance.

“He did suggest keeping a closer eye on you,” Cas admitted.

“Yeah, it didn’t take much brain power to read between the lines,” Dean added.

Gabriel bit his lip. “I’m trying. I - I get stuck. I get trapped. But I’m pushing and shoving myself as hard as I can.”

“We know,” Castiel assured him.

“I confessed to all these stupid thoughts because I know if something happened, he’d stew in guilt until he pickled himself. So I let him know, and it didn’t come back to haunt me until now, right now, tonight - and Sam was - he - ”

“No no no no, hey,” Dean interjected. “Slow yourself down before I have an aneurysm just looking at you.”

Gabriel drew a deep breath, trying to edge himself away from the nightmare.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Castiel said softly.

Gabriel closed his eyes. The image rushed up to greet him again, an assault drenched in blood and in screams for mercy - screams that were cut off when Sam raised the archangel blade, so that Gabriel saw only the chilly glint of silver.

“I don’t want to,” Gabriel said, voice shaking. “You’re right. I’m sorry guys, I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” said Castiel.

“I would tell Sam. But it’s different when he’s not here. When he’s the - the one who - but this almost never happens. Why now? Why this bad? I don’t understand.”

“Because he matters to you,” Cas replied. “Because what he’s given you is just the sort of thing Asmodeus would have used as a weapon.”

“Yeah,” said Dean, “It’s not exactly a shock that your own mind would throw around the sickest fairy tale it could come up with. But listen, I’m sure after a little time to get back to reality, Sam’s gonna seem like good old Sam again.” When Gabriel didn’t respond, Dean patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Gabe. Come on, you gotta tell yourself that. A hundred times if it doesn’t work the first ninety-nine.”

Gabriel’s throat closed up. “Probably a hundred and one since he just shoved the archangel blade down my gullet.”

There was stunned silence.

Finally, Castiel said, “Even by yourstands that’s pretty bad.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “My brother would never - ”

“I know,” Gabriel hissed. “Shit, I know. I know as well as either of you. And frankly I would be more confident in my knowledge if I hadn’t seen him turn into Mr. Hyde right here in the bunker. In his room. On his bed. Which has never been anything but a place to get help, and - ” Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his face to his palm. “Now it’s not.”

“Oh, no, no - Gabriel, no.” Castiel’s took his hand. Sam must have taught him, as well as Jack, the art of keeping Gabriel sane. “Have you forgotten the dreams about me attacking you? And you’ve grown more at ease in my company, Gabriel, not less. I know it’s taken you some time, but if you can move past fearing me, you can hold onto your trust in Sam.” Castiel squeezed Gabriel's fingers. “I think this was inevitably going to come up for you - although I certainly wish it hadn’t - and of course it’s nothing short of traumatic. But please, don’t think of it as a barrier to what you have with Sam. This is only a moment’s interruption. The fallout isn’t going to take him away from you.”

“I agree with Cas,” said Dean. “No way is this gonna leave a dent in what you two have going. Hey man, even I’ve had a dream or two about Sam to wrangle with, and in the long run, nothing changes.”

“That’s probably true,” Gabriel murmured. “If anything’s going to stop me hounding him, it’ll be me doing something to screw him over.”

“You’re wrong,” Castiel replied at once. “The only thing that could ruin your relationship would be you tearing yourself out of it. And at this stage, you have the wisdom and resilience not to.”

Gabriel considered his brother’s words. To some degree, they were correct: Gabriel had learned to believe in Sam’s loyalty, because there was virtually no reason to question it - save for a short while ago when Sam insisted that his help would only make Gabriel worse. But Sam had made it clear that he doubted himself, not Gabriel.

“I have an idea,” said Dean, breaking Gabriel's chain of thought. “I could go get Sam right now, and you could see he’s exactly who he was before you went to bed. It’ll be easier if you do that now, when we’re here to back you up.”

“No!” Gabriel shrieked. It was instinct - an unconscious refusal to give in to a threat. He could still see the steadiness of Sam’s eyes as he pinned Gabriel to the bed. Could still taste the blood torn from his throat as he howled - I don’t want this, I don’t, please stop, I need your help, I need help - and the blood in his throat was a grotesque appetizer to the blood that rose up as Sam shoved the blade into Gabriel’s open mouth and clogged his voice, his breathing, his hope that Sam might listen to him.

“That’s it buddy, you’re okay.” Dean’s voice registered from somewhere far off. “Cas is getting you some water and a bucket. Just keep breathing and try to come back to us.”

Gabriel knew his vision wasn’t real, recognized it as only a dream, understood that he was safe in the bunker. He wasn’t torn between the picture that haunted him and the weight of Dean’s hand on his shoulder. He knew which was happening; and he knew which one had not happened, and never would.

Yet somehow he was still swallowed up by the dream. He lost handfuls of seconds as he sat there, feeling the warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder, watching as a bucket was placed in his lap, allowing cold water to dribble down his chin when Castiel tried to make him drink it.

“What should we do?” he heard Dean ask.

“I don’t know. I think we may simply have to let him come out of it on his own.”

Gabriel blinked. No. No, he didn’t want to make them wait all night.

Gabriel looked at his brother, who didn’t seem quite solid, as if he were part of the dream too.

“Gabriel?” Castiel said quietly.

Gabriel tried to focus on him. Then he managed to croak, “I don’t need this,” and put the bucket on the floor.

Gabriel pulled a slow, deep breath. “Oh, wow. Crap, I - I’m sorry guys. ”

“Don’t,” said Dean, maintaining his grip on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Cas, give him some water.”

This time, Gabriel held the glass himself and took a sip. He hadn’t realized until then how thirsty he was. The moisture made it easier to speak. “I get that this is crazy. Sam wouldn’t hurt me. I asked him to once, and it freaked him out.” Gabriel took another careful swallow. “Man, the look on his face. It was like he was watching his first Alfred Hitchcock. Thinking he could ever behave like Asmodeus … it isn’t fair to him.”

“You should tell him that,” Castiel said in a gentle voice.

Gabriel’s heartbeat - his stupid, petulant, graceless heartbeat - picked up at the notion of seeing Sam.

Dean seemed to realize what Gabriel was thinking. “Not by yourself, Gabe.”

“Although,” Castiel added, “You’re under no obligation. So if you’re not ready - ”

“I’m not,” said Gabriel. “But you’re wrong. I do have an obligation.”

Castiel touched Gabriel’s knee as Dean left. “Gabriel.”

Gabriel hugged himself and shivered.

“Everything is okay,” Cas told him, voice quiet.

All Gabriel could do was swallow down a fresh wave of nausea.

When Dean returned with Sam in tow, they weren’t alone.

Jack didn’t say anything, just peered at Gabriel with worry in his eyes. Gabriel wished he hadn’t come. Jack didn’t need to be subjected to any more of this.

Gabriel looked past him to Sam, and his heart jolted again. Sam looked uncertain, as though he couldn’t figure out what to say.

“It’s all right,” Castiel murmured. “It’s all right, Gabriel.”

Sam tried to smile. “How’re you feeling?”

Gabriel began to tremble.

“Should I tell him to leave?” Castiel asked in a voice low enough that only Gabriel could hear.

Gabriel laid his head face-down on Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean sighed. “Sam, it looks like - ”

“No.” Gabriel sat back up and turned around. “None of this is your fault, Sam. I’m only afraid because fear is pretty much all I can remember how to do. If I don’t give you a chance I’ll just hurt the both of us. You know what tricks those dreams pull on me. This is hardly my first showdown with Winchesters and co. wielding a blade. It’s just - it’s different, because it was you and I know you’d never do it. Not that any of you would, but - Sam, I don’t always know; I can never be sure. Except with you.”

Sam made an attempt to smile again, but this time it didn’t work.

“I can’t just throw you away when I know you’re exactly the same as you’ve always been,” Gabriel told him. “I’ve got to see that. I can’t avoid you because then my mind will start making you look different.”

Tentatively, Gabriel pushed himself up from the bed. Castiel followed suit, watching to make sure he didn’t stumble.

Gabriel approached Sam, still shaking, still nauseated, and stopped when they were a few feet apart.

Gabriel could only imagine what he looked like just then, because he saw, even through the unexpected (and entirely unwelcome) prickle of tears, the astonishment that fell over Sam’s face.

“Gabriel.” Sam took a step backwards. “You don’t have to. Not right now. I understand; I know what it’s like. Don’t push yourself if you’re not ready.”

Gabriel swallowed against the tightness in his throat and shook his head. “No, Sam, you - you’re the only one who can - ” But Gabriel couldn’t finish, not when his mind was busy trying to disentangle the fear from the hunger, the ache, the mourning sawing at his conscience.

“No,” he rasped, “This is stupid. If I don’t talk to you then I’ll get worse. Because you know how much I count on you to help me stay together. I shove you away, I’m gonna destroy myself. Or what’s left of me, anyway.”

Sam looked hesitant.

Gabriel retreated to the bed. "Come over here, Sam. Please."

When Sam remained still, Castiel spoke up. “I think Gabriel’s right. Let him try to fix this if that’s what he wants.”

Sam inched towards the bed and sat several inches away from Gabriel, so that he was at risk of falling off the foot of the mattress. Even given this distance, a new wave of dread thickened Gabriel’s veins. All he could do was keep himself talking, communicating - if he stopped, he wouldn’t have the courage to try again. “Did Dean tell you about it?”

Sam nodded. “Can’t say I blame you for running to someone else.”

“I don’t want anyone else.” Gabriel didn’t even have to think about his response. It surprised him; and yet, he realized, there was no reason to be taken off guard by something so natural. It was simply how things were, and for a moment Gabriel wondered how his feelings about Sam could have been interrupted just by a bad dream.

But still, there was the tickle of adrenaline that he simply couldn’t ignore.

“You know what sucks?” Gabriel said to no one in particular. “Asmodeus won’t even let me have this.”

Sam frowned. “Have what?”

“Have you! Look at me, he’s taking you away from me!”

Horror broke over Sam’s face. “No he isn’t. He’s not, Gabriel. I wouldn’t let him do that.”

Gabriel shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was strangled. “He’s more powerful than you are, Sam.”

“Really?” It didn’t sound like a serious question. “You talk about him like he’s still around. I’m alive, Gabriel. That makes me a million times stronger than he is.”

“And in any case,” added Castiel, “Your own mind can do more than Asmodeus ever could. If you don’t let him violate your relationship with Sam - ”

“Stop right there, sensei,” Gabriel interrupted. “I would love to share your faith in pithy optimism, but I’m the poster child for the fragility of even the holiest mind. I tried, Castiel. I held out for a long time before letting Asmodeus take the wheel. And you know why I let him?” Gabriel gave Cas a second to respond before continuing. “Because who wants to be at the helm while they’re getting mutilated and beaten? And the longer I held on, the harder he pushed for me to let go. I don't know what it would've been like for you, but in my case pushing back was too much.”

“Gabriel, I only meant - ”

“There’s a time and place for encouragement, Castiel, and this situation clearly demands common sense. Be realistic.” Gabriel could feel his face flushing, his heart speeding up. “After all these months since I got out, how could you possibly, ever, even suspect that I have any control over my own mind? What the hell is going on in yours?"

“Whoa, hey, buddy, calm down.” Dean moved forward and reached out to him, but Gabriel jumped up from the bed and backed away. Sam got to his feet too, watching Gabriel but not moving.

“Sure,” Gabriel barreled on, “I was weak because I had to be. The only logical next step after all that fighting, all that pulling myself back together once he was finished dragging my grace out of me the same way he dragged me across the floor and bloodied me up if I so much as coughed too loudly, was to stop fighting. One less battle I had to wage. But here I am now, trying just as hard as I did before that, maybe harder, and I’m bouncing back like an elephant in the Mississippi. In fact, I’m starting to think maybe I have less control than I did when I was with Asmodeus. I’ve been rubbed raw. Whatever pre-Hell padding I had in my conscience is long gone. And if the way things are going now is any indication, it isn’t going to grow back.”

Jack stepped forward, eyes wide. “Uncle Gabe - ”

“No - kid - ” Gabriel gritted his teeth. “Whose idea was it to bring you in here? Why did you bring him in here?” he shot at Dean. “He shouldn’t be allowed to watch this, any of this; he’s a baby!”

Then and there, Gabriel froze, listening to the echo of the words inside his head.

“He’s a baby,” Gabriel repeated, and dissolved into a fit of sobbing.

There was a startled hush. It seemed that no one knew how to respond.

Then Gabriel heard Sam ask softly, “Gabriel, what should we do? Which one of us do you want?”

Gabriel didn’t answer - simply stood in place, near the middle of the room, feeling every set of eyes upon him. Somewhere, knotted in with everything else, he registered embarrassment. But the signal was faint and thready.

Mostly, there was just instinct.

“Sam,” Gabriel choked out, “I - ”

Sam kept his eyes locked on Gabriel, afraid of making things worse.

“Sam,” Gabriel whimpered, “Help me.”

Sam waited a second, making sure that Gabriel wouldn’t change his mind. Then he said, “Okay.”

Sam tried to lay a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder but Gabriel leaned forward and seized him in a frantic, terrified embrace.

“Sam?” Castiel’s voice.

Sam tightened his grip. “I got it, Cas.”

Gabriel heard everyone shuffle towards the exit, then the click of the door.

“Gabriel,” Sam murmured.

The sound of his own name was enough to turn Gabriel’s stomach.

“Gabriel, why don’t you come with me? Lie down for a sec.”

He let Sam pull away and followed him into the hall. Gabriel tripped, only now seeing how exhausted he was from sickness, rage, and fear.

Sam helped to steady him with an arm around his waist. “You’re okay. Easy does it; you’re okay.”

Gabriel expected to return to his own bed - his sweaty, vomit-soaked bed - but instead was brought to Sam’s room.

“You gonna be okay in here, Gabriel?” asked Sam. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No,” croaked Gabriel.

“No, you want to leave? Or no, you want to stay?”

“I want to stay.”

He let Sam guide him to the bed. After Gabriel was settled, Sam sat down too, once again leaving a wide gap between them.

“It’s okay,” Sam said softly. “You’re safe in here. You’re safe with me.”

Feeling marginally less panicked now, Gabriel looked down at the rumpled sheets. His voice trembled when he spoke. “Sorry for the - the nasty wake-up call. I would’ve been quieter if I could.” He glanced at the clock on Sam’s nightstand. Just after 4:30 A.M. “Son of a - ”

“No, no, it’s fine; I probably wouldn’t have slept for much longer anyway. Anyway, morning’ll be here soon and you’ll feel better.”

“I just hope I’m not like this all day.”

“You’ll try. That’s what counts.”

Gabriel scoffed. “Oh, sure. If the chemo doesn’t work, welp, then at least we tried to get rid of the cancer. Who doesn’t want that on their headstone, right? ‘The tumor killed me, but A for effort.’”

Sam gave him a small smile. "I heard what you said back there. About being in Hell. That you did what you could and it never helped. Listen, I know better than anyone. Lucifer … he stayed with me for a long time after I got out. No matter how hard I fought, he stuck around. And he had control. There was nothing I could do.” Sam's expression was earnest now. “But you know what Cas was trying to get across. That you have a choice. Maybe you didn’t then, but even if Asmodeus is still in your head, Gabriel - he isn’t here. You can’t decide to just ignore him because that’s not how any of this works. But technically, since he’s gone, and we’re not, and you’re out … you’re the one with the final say.”

Gabriel kept his gaze on the floor.

“And Jack …”

Gabriel snapped his head up.

“Don’t worry about Jack,” Sam went on. “None of us made him do anything. Even if we’d tried, the kid doesn’t give up easy. He wanted to see you. He wanted to help.”

“But Sam, he’s - ”

“He’s not a baby, Gabriel. Not anymore.”

Gabriel swallowed. “I just … I can’t …”

“What is it?” Sam looked puzzled. “What’s bothering you so much about Jack?”

Gabriel drew a shaky breath, coughed on it, and tried again. “With him - with Asmodeus - I’ve never felt like so much of a little kid, Sam. Not even when I was little. I was helpless. Always begging, always screaming … ‘I want my brothers; I want my father; I’m cold, I want a blanket’ …” He covered his face, long past being irritated with himself. “If Jack is going to be forced to throw away his innocence, I don’t want to watch. And I definitely don’t want to be a part of it.”

“Gabriel.” Sam squeezed his shoulder. “Jack isn’t naive. That’s not the same as being innocent.”

Gabriel shook his head, unable to speak.

“I know it isn’t fair,” Sam said quietly. “But Jack is okay. Trust me, we’re making sure of that.” He let go. “Now listen - you need to at least try and get some rest. One of us can stay with you.”

This time Gabriel forced himself to answer. “Vetoed. My bed is a cesspool of shame, and if I have one more nightmare I’ll forget how to sleep altogether. You, on the other hand - ”

“I’ll go back to sleep,” Sam agreed, “But first I want to bring you over to Cas.” He stood up and offered a hand to assist Gabriel, who accepted.

Neither of them said anything as they left the room. Gabriel wanted to reach out to him, to plead with him not to leave.

They found Castiel in Gabriel’s room, helping Dean dress the bed in fresh sheets.

Gabriel cringed. “I hope you’re getting paid overtime.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel said, “I put on some coffee if you still don’t want to sleep.”

“I’d take coffee over a mouthful of my own blood any day.”

Sam winced.

“You can go back to bed,” Castiel told Sam. “Dean, you too. I’ll take things from here.”

“Where’s Jack?” asked Gabriel.

“Out like a light,” Dean replied. “I think he was still awake when he heard you. Says he has more trouble sleeping without his grace for some reason.”

Gabriel looked away. “Sometimes I forget he’s lost all his power too.”

“Neither of you has lost your power,” Castiel corrected. “You’ve lost your grace. There are other kinds of power.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “We had this discussion. I remember because I got an F on my report card.”

“Gabriel,” said Sam, “Will you be okay with Cas?”

There was worry in Sam’s eyes - enough that the dream seemed significantly more distant than it had when Gabriel was still refusing Sam’s company. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be up in a little while.”

“Don’t worry, Sam. Get as much sleep as you need. Thanks for … you know. Thanks. And sorry.”

Sam smiled. “Could’ve done without either of those.”

When Sam was gone, Dean stretched. "All good here, you two?"

“We’ll be in the kitchen,” Cas replied.

“Dean,” said Gabriel, “That was nice of you.”

“Oh yeah, there were sheets in the closet; no big - ”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not talking about the sheets. Go back to bed.” He followed Castiel out of the room.

In the kitchen, Castiel poured coffee for each of them. Gabriel wasn’t really interested in drinking it, but the aroma - which called up no memories of his time in Hell - was comforting.

“Cas,” said Gabriel as Castiel set the mug in front of him, “I wasn’t trying to make the point that Sam is the only one who knows how to help.”

Castiel frowned. "What?"

“When I said I knew Sam wouldn’t hurt me. I didn’t mean that I thought you would. You’ve all done your part; I just - you know, Sam was there when I got out, when I still didn’t know if I’d really left, or if someone had plans to punish me for leaving. He woke me up a little. Coming to check on me so much, and then not hitting me or laughing at me …” Gabriel lifted the cup of coffee, assessing whether he felt well enough to drink it, and decided he did. The taste was lively and crisp. “I was scared, Castiel. And I was scared for days after the battle with Michael was over. Sam was the only thing I could manage to come back to whenever I lost my focus. He was always the least likely to be part of that awful feeling I get.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. “You thought that I would take your preference for Sam as some kind of personal affront?”

“I don’t want you to feel like I don’t appreciate you guys too - you, and Dean, and even little Aaron Carter there. I just hope you get why I autopilot to Sam.”

“Of course I do. All of us do. What I don’t understand is why you keep insisting on how burdensome you are when we only want to help you improve. Everything you went through, and what he did to you - not one of us would expect you to move on independently.”

Gabriel rested his chin in his palm. “That’s not what you said when it was time to face Michael.”

Castiel fidgeted and looked down into his mug of coffee, which he hadn’t touched. “We … felt there was no other choice. Or at least I did. A desperate man will grab onto anything to keep from falling further.” He looked up, eyes pleading. “None of us were in a position to prioritize compassion. But that doesn’t mean we made assumptions about whether you’d truly healed. We gave it almost no thought until the worst was over. You were there, a potential part of the solution, and … and there was little time to negotiate our options.” Castiel shook his head. “I don’t like it, Gabriel. None of us do. But even now, I can’t think of an immediate alternative.”

“I’m not upset with you over it,” Gabriel told him. “Frankly, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. But I hope I’m not just part of your toolbox, you know? Kinda want to be more than that.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m not sure if I’ll ever be useful again. But Sam tried so hard to make me believe that doesn’t hold as much weight as I think it does.”

Castiel looked crestfallen. “Listen to him.”

“And once I get stronger - if I get stronger - ”

“Then we’ll be glad. Not for us, but for you.”

Gabriel smiled. “Got your bachelor’s in psych from Winchester University, huh?”

“They’re good people. No matter how much you dream about them hurting you, they’ll always be good people.”

“Same applies to you, little brother.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’m quite as good as they are.”

“Oh come on, you can share their goodness without partaking of their self-deprecation. Crummy confidence isn’t a prerequisite for moral integrity.”

“Neither is giving advice that you won’t take.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “You look smug.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care for any breakfast,” Castiel replied, disregarding the accusation. “I know you were feeling sick earlier, but eating something may help settle your stomach.”

“Not yet. Just coffee for now.”

“Then we can wait. But eventually.”

Gabriel put the coffee aside, feeling the early sting of a headache. He rested his head on the table and sighed.

“Would you prefer to lie down?” Castiel asked.

“I’m all right. Need a minute.”

But immediately, despite his best efforts, Gabriel began to drift off.

He heard voices as he crept into sleep, felt the warmth of someone else beside him.

“Gabriel?”

Gabriel was too far gone to answer. But he felt a familiar hand on his back, too gentle to be the same one he’d tried to fight off in his nightmare. Maybe it was simply the beginning of a different dream.

Gabriel could only hope that this one had a better ending.

[elli-dawn-stories]

The Big, Buff Chicken- Eisuke

I didn’t know whether I should be laughing or crying, but here I was laughing amidst my tears. It was like a curse upon my life, a foul curse. Just when I have been going through a difficult time and feeling irritable and moody, what should appear at my door? A damn ugly chicken, again. I thought the last chicken was laughable but this is on another level. This chicken looked back at me like it was judging me with it’s buff body. …What chicken has muscles?! “You stupid chicken.” I shake the plush toy, glaring at it. So what if I don’t have a buff body, this chicken has no right to mock me. Whoever sent this absurd toy to me better watch out; if I find you then I will end you!

I knew there was no way Baba would play the same prank twice. Uh…or would he? No. He wouldn’t, it would be too obvious. So who could have sent it? Bah. I’ll get no where like this. Grasping the chicken in my hand I storm out of my room. “I will get to the bottom of this.” I declare, shaking the chickens butt in the air. My first destination is the penthouse, of course. If anyone may know something it would be them. It would seem whenever I am run afoul by a chicken I don’t care about marching through the hotel waving the thing around and having all eyes on me. My anger burns within me and melts all shame.

I reach the elevator and practically smash my fist into the button. That elevator better come and fast. I may be letting my anger out on my surroundings, only a little. *ding* Finally, the elevator arrived. The doors opened and as soon as the people inside saw me they gave me strange looks but I didn’t care. The elevator completely emptied out there; I don’t know if because it was their final stop or because they could sense my murderous aura.

I reached the penthouse and everyone but Soryu were present. When they looked at me their faces dropped, they knew, oh they knew I was not happy.

“Is something wrong?” Baba spoke first and then he saw the chicken I held and looked like he was trying to hold back from laughing. “Yes, something is very wrong.” I waved the chicken in front of me as I walked closer. “Baba!” I pointed the chicken at him. “Why did you send me another chicken?”

Baba shrinked back hearing my tone and from me glaring at him. “Sorry, this time I’m innocent. I swear.” Baba took off his hat and bowed before me. Though the look on his face told me he still thought this was amusing. But I guess he is innocent…this time.

“Then who sent me this chicken?” I clenched my jaw, squeezing the chicken even harder. “Who thought this would be funny…wha?” Did the chicken just make a sound?

Dumbfounded, I squeezed the chicken again. “What kind of hellish sound is this?” The sounds coming from the chicken are the stuff of nightmares. Little kids wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even I am very disturbed.

“Pffft.” I could hear laughter and look to see Ota and Baba both nearly on the floor, tears in their eyes.

“What was that? Whoever sent this sure knew what they were doing.” Ota said, recovering from his laughter. “This prank is amazing. I love it.” Baba added.

Hmph. Those two need some sense knocked into them. “Heeey-!” Both Ota and Baba never saw it coming. The big, buff chicken cleanly smacked them on the head several times all the while it freakish voice echoed. “We give up, we give up! Please, show mercy!”

I grin at my small victory. That showed them. Both of them looked pretty rattled and don’t dare say another word.

“I’ll look into it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find the culprit.” Eisuke said.

Finally, I was waiting for this. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.” I smiled at him and he flashed me a mischievous grin. “Of course. This is nothing. When it comes to you nothing is too big or too small, I will do everything within my power to help.” Eisuke stood up and gently touched my chin, “Tonight, I will help you ease all your pent up frustration. Be ready for it.” He whispered in my ear. My body went hot, hot, hot; hotter than that flaming chicken.

It was so like Eisuke to be able to pick up on my needs like that. It’s true, I haven’t had much time with him lately and the longer it goes the stronger my frustrations get. But…I still can’t believe I got a chicken again, right at this time. Seriously, who was the wicked villain that played this heinous prank on me? Okay, I know I am overreacting, but that doesn’t matter right now. All I care about is finding the instigator and giving them a piece of my mind.

Eisuke jumped right into action. He said it should only take a day. Two days passed. Nothing. A further three days passed. Still nothing. Eisuke was going a little mad not being able to turn up any leads. Being beat by a chicken would ruin his pride, he couldn’t let this stand. No chicken would foul his name.

“Eisuke sure is egged on trying to find the culprit.” Baba joked and I shot him a dirty look. “Enough,” I snap, “You must love being punny at every opportunity, huh.” I breathed in a low tone and Baba had to bite his lip to stay quiet. “Yes. Yes I do. You sure let your feathers get ruffled easily.” Baba says, grinning, and I looked at him with a sudden craving for scrambled eggs.

I was even more frustrated now. Thanks to all this chicken business, Eisuke has had no time to spend with me. He refuses to stop until he finds the culprit but I am already over it now. With it causing all this trouble I rather just forget it. Sure, I asked Eisuke to help because he assured me it would be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be a week later and that was all Eisuke would be fixed on.

“By the way, where is Soryu? I haven’t seen him around.” I noticed Soryu had been missing for more than a week now. “He’s been busy with his work. He should be back before long.” Baba said.

“Hey.” Ota walked into the penthouse. “Has there been any progress on the chicken case?” He asked. I shook my head, feeling irritated. “Seems this case really has run afoul.” Ota chuckled and sat down. “What? It was just a joke?” Ota flinched when he saw me giving him a deathly glare. “Be careful what you say or she may roast you.” Baba whispered to Ota but I could still hear.

*bang* “Owww!” Both of them winced after having received a knock to their heads. “Oh. I’m sorry. I was just making scrambled…scrambled…”

“Scrambled eggs?” Ota said and I knocked him on the head again and said, “Oh, yes. Scrambled brains.” I grinned evilly. Both of them shrunk back in fear and never spoke out of line again that day.

“Eisuke, it’s okay. You tried your best, it is okay to stop now.” I gently rubbed his hand as I talked to him on the sofa. “No. I will see this through to the end.” Eisuke still looked as determined as ever. As long as his pride was on the line then there would be not stopping this. Even so… “What if you never find anything? It is pointless continuing. It’s only a silly chicken.” But even though I said that, Eisuke looked bothered by the matter. “It’s not about the chicken.”

“It’s not?” I was surprised to hear him say that. “I promised I would help you. I still remember how you looked when you entered the penthouse that day. I swore I would help you. I can’t go back on my word now.”

I was shaken. I never knew he felt this way. Eisuke was so sincerely dedicated to me he would go this far. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes and Eisuke looked at me, smiling, he slid a finger under my chin and brought his lips to mine. “I need you.” He whispered, his hands slipping up my top. “Eisuke,” I wrapped my arms around his neck, “I love you.”

Eisuke pushed me back on the sofa his lips never leaving me. His hot and steamy kiss sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body. His every touch as he removed my clothing was electrifying. My body yearned for him. I needed him. I needed him now. “Eisuke, hurry. I can’t wait any longer.”

Eisuke flashed me a sexy grin along with lustful eyes. Just like I wished, he didn’t hold back. I had awoken the beast sleeping within him and he completely ravaged me. I clung to his back thankful for this time with him all the while praying he will find the culprit soon.

A few days later. Soryu had finally returned to the penthouse. He immediately notices the frustration on Eisuke’s face and the strained atmosphere. “What happened while I was away?” Soryu questioned and a moment later his eyes fell upon the big, buff chicken sitting on the table. Immediately his eyes widened and he rushed to pick it up, “What is this doing here? I told Samenji to send it to a rival mafia boss.” Soryu sounds exasperated.

Everyone else in the room quickly straighten up and look at Soryu. I felt a mix of disbelief and shock. Eisuke looked even more shook by the news. He sat besides me in momentary silence, as if he was trying to come to terms with it.

We all proceeded to explain the situation and it resulted in Soryu apologizing profusely for his subordinates error. Now all I could do was laugh. Who would have thought this would be the end result. Eisuke still couldn’t believe it and never wanted to speak of it again. Of all the timing for me to get that chicken by mistake. I really am chicken cursed. First by prank and now by an accident, twice I have received creepy chickens. Will there be a third? I sure hope not. But I question what kind of evil scheme was Soryu planning sending that chicken to another mafia boss… Probably best I don’t ask.

Later on it was found out Samenji never even touched the package. Rather, Inui found it first and with no idea what it was planned for, as no one told him, he thought it may have actually been a gift for me; since the package was all nicely decorated. Even I thought it was a cute package until I saw the contents. Inui apologized to me himself and said he only delivered that package because he thought he was helping Soryu. Turns out Soryu has a soft spot for me but since I am with Eisuke he has accepted the support role. Poor Inui, It was like his imaginary ears were drooping. I decided to treat him to lunch to cheer him up.

Though I still couldn’t get over my luck. It’s all just too weird. I swear if I get another one day I will just burn it on the spot.

[thefandomlesbian]

An Education of the Heart

Summary: "It's easier if Lana thinks of him as Mary Eunice's baby rather than her own. If she thinks of him as Mary Eunice's, and of Mary Eunice, maybe she will manage to forget the evil which created him. Everything about Mary Eunice is pure, and gentle, and kind. She knows if anything will destroy the malevolence inside him, Mary Eunice will." In which Mary Eunice adopts Lana's baby, and they all get the family they deserved.

AO3 (Tumblr ate the formatting, so please read on AO3 for optimal experience.)

From the moment his cry pierces the air in the hospital room, Mary Eunice is there at her bedside. "It's a boy!" Lana wants to glare at the doctor, but she can't manage the strength. The nurse carts the baby away. People harry over her—she doesn't pay much attention to them. The morphine has numbed her all over, and she floats in a pleasant, exhausted haze for an indefinite amount of time, Mary Eunice's hand in her own, gentle fingers wiping her sweaty brow and tucking her stringy hair behind her ears.

She awakens when the nurse brings the baby back to them. He's howling. Mary Eunice rises from her chair. "She's resting," she says, gentle but stern. "She doesn't want to see him. I'll take him when they're ready to be discharged." The nurse attempts to side-step around her. "She's sleeping," Mary Eunice says again.

"Not anymore," Lana mumbles, still groggy. She rubs her eyes with one fist like a toddler stirred from a nap. The numbness has worn off, and her body aches. As she pushes herself up, her ass squishes in the pad they've strapped on her, all of the blood running down and out of her burning genitals. A string of wires attaches to her hands and tugs them back. "I told you I don't want to see him." Now, she has the strength to glare, and she fixes the nurse under a dark look, but the woman doesn't bow under the pressure.

"Please." The nurse rocks the inconsolable newborn, a blue cap shielding his bald head. In the wrap of blankets, Lana can't see his face. But the whole goddamn hospital can hear him. "He's allergic to the formula. We have a specialty shipment coming in tonight, but it's going to be a few hours—he's hungry."

Mary Eunice intercedes. "No," she says. "There are half a dozen other women in this ward. Can't you ask one of them?"

"I can't ask a patient to nurse another patient's baby."

"Fine," Lana says. Anything to shut him up. The horrible wails of the baby are enough to send her blood pressure up; a thin sheen of sweat has erupted on her since he entered the room. "Give him to me." Mary Eunice gapes. A certain sadness lays in her azure eyes, a certain pity, a certain love—all of the things she had shown on that night, those months ago, when she had agreed to this arrangement, when she had kissed Lana for the first time. What they are now, Lana isn't sure, but she knows this will change all of it.

The nurse hands her the baby. She opens the front of her gown with clumsy fingers, and at the sound of an intercom, the nurse flees the room. She doesn't look down at him. Instead, she presses his cheek to her breast. His cry interrupts into a gasp, almost of surprise. He's astonished I would provide for him. A hand paws around her nipple before he latches. He nurses greedily, scarred from the first hours of his life starving him. Lana thanks whatever mercy rests in the heavens, however limited, for a good supply; she remembers, vaguely, her doctor telling her something about insufficient supply being common. (More, she remembers snapping at him that he was half-brained if he thought she had any intention of breastfeeding this baby. She hopes he doesn't find out about this.)

Some part of her is afraid to look at his face, so she gazes at Mary Eunice, who has averted her eyes in deference. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks.

"I'm sure."

There's an emergency down the hall. Everyone is racing around and shouting. When the baby detaches himself from her breast, she pushes him away, and Mary Eunice takes him without hesitation, propping him up on her shoulder and patting his back until he gives an audible belch. From the corner of her eye, Lana spies a dimple. He's smiling. Mary Eunice grins back at him, goofy as a thrilled dog. She knows he's smiling on reflex, rather than socially, but the interaction eases a stressed tangle in the pit of her stomach. If she knew any modicum of joy anymore, she supposes she would feel it now. She doesn't quite manage a smile of her own. But she thinks she'll get there. I hope. "What are you going to name him?" she asks.

Mary Eunice blinks in surprise. As the baby begins to sleep, she stands to close the door and muffle the sounds of panic down the hall. She cradles him against her chest, easy and soft. "I thought you would name him."

"You're his mother. You're naming him."

Mary Eunice frowns. "Right. I hadn't considered…" She stares down at him, as if she can read his personality in his squishy, red face. "Oh, I don't know! Every cat I've ever owned was named Patches." Lana chuckles at this, quiet and dry, because it matches Mary Eunice so well. "What do you think?" Lana holds up a hand, shaking her head, but Mary Eunice isn't accepting the answer of refusal; desperation lies in her eyes. "Lana, please. I wasn't expecting this. You've got to help me."

She knows Mary Eunice has decided to do this out of love for her, and out of gratitude, she says, "I like the name Johnny," with a sigh. It goes on the birth certificate, eventually; the document names him Johnny McKee, no middle name, and it's the only document Mary Eunice receives which has Lana's name on it instead of her own.

"Lana, I have to ask you something—and if you say no, that's okay, I'll understand." Lana glances up at her. "I know this is hard for you, but… I'd like you to be his godmother, if you're willing."

She blinks, long and slow, to Mary Eunice. "Yeah," she says. "I will." She doesn't know why she agrees. Perhaps it's because she appreciates her friend. Perhaps it's because some part of her wants to be close to her son, to keep an eye on him, to monitor the situation and keep track of the lies Mary Eunice tells him. He will never know where he came from. That's the way they want it, and they can protect his identity best by keeping him close. She knows it's better this way, where she can watch and still be detached. "Come here," Lana says. "I'm cold."

Mary Eunice sits beside her and tugs the blankets up over her, tucking them around her lap. She guards the baby, keeping the soft blanket wrapped around him, obscuring his face. With her pressed so near, Lana has the courage to glance down at him. "He's ugly."

"Lana!" Mary Eunice bursts out into a fit of giggles at her blunt words. She covers her hand with her mouth to muffle them, trying to keep from disturbing the peaceful infant.

Sheepish, she shrugs, averting her eyes. "I mean to say he's not cute. I was expecting him to be cuter. I didn't mean to insult your baby." It's easier if she thinks of him as Mary Eunice's baby rather than her own. If she thinks of him as Mary Eunice's, and of Mary Eunice, maybe she will manage to forget the evil which created him. Everything about Mary Eunice is pure, and gentle, and kind. She knows if anything will destroy the malevolence inside him, Mary Eunice will. "He's just… ugly."

"Babies come out ugly. You'd be pretty pruny, too, if you sat in a tub of warm water for nine months."

"Touche." Lana reclines on the pillows. At first, she stares up at the ceiling. Then, she looks down at the mattress, opening her hand in the hopes Mary Eunice will take it. She does, keeping Johnny resting in the crook of her other arm. The back of her hand bears a deep red bruise, darkening to purple with each passing moment. "Did I do that?" she asks. Mary Eunice responds by taking the hand away and wrapping an arm around her shoulders instead, holding her close. Lana rests her cheek on her shoulder, too tired to resist. "I'm sorry," she says.

Mary Eunice kisses her temple. "Don't be."

Some part of Lana feels guilty for the way she lies in the other woman's embrace, but she has endured too much to begin denying herself things. She loves Mary Eunice. It's a different love than what she felt for Wendy, not as romantic; this love is borne of friendship and gratitude, respect for the support Mary Eunice has given her, for the meals she received, for the hugs through her nightmares. She knows Mary Eunice acts as a form of recompense, that Mary Eunice will never forgive herself for the atrocities the sanitarium committed—she left the church in protest, after all. But Mary Eunice acts out of love, as well, and the feeling is mutual. Lana nuzzles her cheek like the baby rooting in search of a teat. Mary Eunice provides a soft kiss for her, the second one they've shared. Lana exhales, long and deep. The house will be empty when she returns. Mary Eunice has prepared her apartment for the baby. I'm afraid to be alone. "Can I come home with you?"

Burrowing into her greasy hair, Mary Eunice whispers, "If that's what you want. I set up the crib in my bedroom."

"Oh." Lana has no interest in sleeping in the same house with a crying newborn, let alone in the same room. "Never mind."

"I'll come check on you," Mary Eunice says. "Dinner once a week?"

"Mhm." Lana falls asleep there in the crook of her arm, nestled like a much larger counterpart to Mary Eunice's son—the baby she has adopted as her own.

…

Mary Eunice makes good on her promise—better, in fact. She works as a nurse, and every day, after she picks up Johnny from Kit's house where Grace and Alma serve as babysitters, she comes by Lana's house. Most nights, she cooks dinner. Sometimes, she allows Lana to order a pizza, and they spread out on the couch and watch television, Mary Eunice entertaining her growing son. They keep sharing their kisses. Mary Eunice is the only person who can touch Lana without making her shake, and Lana drinks in her physical presence like a drug, the way a plant drinks in the sunlight and the nutrients from the depths of the soil. Each night, when Mary Eunice leaves, Lana misses her, and she eagerly awaits the next night for her to return.

She's there when Johnny speaks his first word. "Ma!" he says, holding up his tiny arms and gazing at Mary Eunice with unfathomable adoration—the same adoration Lana feels for Mary Eunice. Does she know she is so loved? she wonders. As Mary Eunice laughs and weeps tears of joy, she cradles her son. He babbles, thrilled at the happiness his speech has brought to her. "Ma! Ma!"

Lana never doubts how much Mary Eunice loves Johnny. She doesn't regret her decision. She can't bring herself to love him, except for the slight fondness she develops, as if she loved Mary Eunice enough to occasionally walk her dog. Give it time. He is her godson. What she cannot provide in affection, she grants in financial stability—after all, her book sells out, and she wants for nothing. She buys him clothing, toys, and books, more books than she can conceive of; she forgets all of the titles she purchases, first baby books, then children's books, and eventually she caves to buy any book she reads that she likes, giving it to Mary Eunice to fill a shelf for when he's older. When Mary Eunice comes to her, meek and apologetic, for help with the bills which a single mother with no high school education simply cannot afford, Lana kisses her hard and makes her promise never to feel shame for needing help.

Johnny is almost two when Lana touches him for the first time, quite by accident. Lana and Mary Eunice are in the kitchen, working on spaghetti, while he plays with his stuffed animals in the living room, talking to himself, fully immersed in his pretend play. "Where did the pink unicorn come from?" Lana asks. Mary Eunice ogles at her like she has sprouted a second head until she clarifies, "The toy. That he's playing with. Don't look at me like I'm nuts."

Mary Eunice shakes herself. "I just spent ten hours in the psychiatric ward. I was about to swear I'd brought the crazy home with me." Lana laughs and lays a hand on her shoulder, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Mary Eunice turns to catch Lana's lips in her own, a peck exchanged between the two of them. "He does toy trades with Julia. She doesn't like all the pink stuff Kit gets her. She likes the toy trucks Johnny doesn't play with. He says pink is his favorite color, so they share."

In the living room, he talks aloud to his toys. "Go go go!" He charges around in circles, clutching the pink unicorn, running away from an invisible foe. "I think we're safe, Effie," he says to the unicorn.

"He's got an imagination, doesn't he?" Lana observes.

Mary Eunice brightens. Lana doesn't always like to talk about Johnny—and sometimes she can't do it without remembering, and on those days, Mary Eunice apologetically asks Kit and his family to watch Johnny for the night and spends time with Lana alone—but she always glows with pride whenever Lana invests some interest in her child. It warms Lana's heart to watch her sparkle with delight. "He does! When I got there today, they were playing house! Thomas was the daddy, Johnny was the mommy, and Julia was the dog."

"The dog?" Lana echoes. Mary Eunice giggles. "Not—Not the daughter, or the sister, or the second mommy—" After all, she thinks, Thomas and Julia have two mommies. "—but the dog?"

"The dog," Mary Eunice repeats. "Johnny said Thomas wouldn't let them have any babies. Thomas only wanted a dog." The living room quiets, and they both turn their heads in suspicion, only to see Johnny sticking his tiny bare feet into Lana's high heeled shoes from the book signing she'd attended that morning. He balances with his arms outstretched. He has a thick shock of brunette hair and eyes the same dark chocolate hue as Lana's, and his tan skin has fat brown freckles smattered all over his face and arms from exposure to the sun; he looks nothing like his mother, all things blonde and pale and fair and fine. "Johnny, sweetheart, be careful!" Mary Eunice calls.

Lana waves her off. "Let him play."

But the sound of his name summons him, and he hobbles into the kitchen in Lana's shoes, taking too large steps and sliding off of the heels no matter how he tries to keep his balance. As he toddles past her, arms reaching up toward Mary Eunice, he stumbles. "Oof!" Quick as lightning, on a reflex as thoughtless as kicking her knee, Lana swoops down and grabs him by the shoulders to keep him from falling. She catches him and holds him at arm's length, his feet sliding out of the shoes. "Auntie!" he says, eyes big as saucers. She stares into them, the same color as her own, but she feels no connection to him. Cold trickles through her blood. Is that wrong? He carries her blood in his veins. Should she not love him? Should she not feel some semblance of familial intimacy toward the child who had grown in her womb?

Johnny notices none of her internal monologue. He pitches her into a hug as big as his small arms can manage. This kickstarts her voice, which had vanished somewhere deep in her throat. "Are you alright?"

He nods, still clutching her tight. "Thank you."

Mary Eunice clears her throat. She bears a tender look. Lana knows she saw the scars resurface on her face. "Johnny, you need to clean up your mess. Put the shoes back where you found them." He grunts in response. "Now, Johnny." At the stern reminder, he severs from her and picks up the shoes, carrying them back into the living room.

A gentle hand presses on the small of Lana's back. It softens the knot of pain in the pit of her stomach. "I'm sorry," she says. "He likes hugs. I'm trying to teach him to ask first."

"It's fine." Something about Mary Eunice's words comforts her. Perhaps knowing Johnny hugs everyone spontaneously, not just her.

"You could've let him fall. It wouldn't have upset me."

"I know." Lana flashes a smile. It isn't quite genuine, but it's enough for Mary Eunice to embrace her and murmur a word of gratitude. Lana wonders why Mary Eunice thanks her—if she feels so compelled because of the shoes, or if her whole life has moved her to feel indebted to Lana, if she cherishes the slice of family Lana allowed her to create so much that she must thank Lana for the circumstances of their existence. Lana doesn't ask. She merely kisses her and trusts that it is enough.

…

Six months later, Mary Eunice stumbles into Lana's house after a long day at work alone with her eyes red-rimmed and her chest trembling. Lana sweeps her inside and slams the door in her haste. "What's wrong? Where's Johnny?" Mary Eunice breaks off into an inconsolable sob and buries herself into Lana's arms, her whole face giving way into mourning. No, no, no… Lana's blood freezes. Her stomach aches. She drags Mary Eunice to the couch and wraps her in the blanket there, trying to calm her shivers. "Mary Eunice? Talk to me! Tell me what's wrong!" She pinches her hands at the tops of Mary Eunice's arms, resisting the urge to shake her when she reaches for another hug. Lana refuses to cave. "Tell me what happened," she repeats. "Has something happened? Are you hurt?" Mary Eunice shakes her head. "Is there something wrong with Johnny?" She can think of nothing which could shake Mary Eunice to her core like this.

But again, she shakes her head. "No, he—he's at Kit's—" She sniffles hard. "They said he could have a sleepover." This time, when she tries to hug Lana, she wraps her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Mary Eunice shakes in her grasp, weak as a baby bird battering its wings.

"It's fine." Lana wipes the tears from her eyes. "What can I do?"

"Just hold me."

She does until the sun goes down and their bellies rumble and their mouths burn from the dryness. "What happened?" Lana dares to ask again, once Mary Eunice has calmed into a lull, almost asleep. "Did something happen at work?"

She nods thoughtfully. She glances up at Lana, but she doesn't hold her gaze. "There was a woman," she says, "expecting triplets. An older woman." She shudders; no matter how Lana holds her, she can't bring warmth back to the chilled body in her arms. "They lost two heartbeats in the delivery room. They did a caesarean, trying to save the last one—she came out crying, but she was so weak…" Mary Eunice drifts off, teeth chattering. Lana tucks a piece of blonde hair behind her ear, cherishing the soft texture. "They tried to bring her back for ten minutes. Nothing worked. Then they took all three of them away from the mother—they didn't even let her hold them."

Lana hides her face in her hair. "I'm so sorry." Mary Eunice's each breath heaves. "I wish you didn't have to see those things." She knows the deaths at the hospital bother her. But Mary Eunice is unlikely to find a better paying job, and she struggles enough with the bills as it is. "You do so much good. You know that, right? That you help people."

Mary Eunice hums in agreement. "I know." Her voice cracks, and she forces herself to ease. "I didn't want Johnny to see me turn into a basket case, though."

Laughing in spite of herself, Lana strokes her hair. "That privilege is reserved just for me, right?" Mary Eunice gives a broken sigh and nods. "I'll take it." We don't get enough time alone together, anyway. It's the only downfall, knowing Johnny eats away at Mary Eunice's time and separates them where otherwise they could be together. "I love you," Lana says without much thought.

"I love you, too."

"Are we having a sleepover, too?"

"If you'll have me."

"Always."

That night, Lana's bed is filled with woman, and they can't help themselves from dancing beneath the sheets, bare skins pressing together, sweat mingling, tongues tasting places they never dreamed. Mary Eunice makes heavenly sounds, and after she reaches her peak and eases back down from the high, she rests in Lana's arms. "Lana?" she murmurs. Lana grunts. "Was that… Did we just make love?"

Lana realizes Mary Eunice has never had sex before. "Yes," she says. She doesn't tease her for her naivete. "We did."

"Can we do it again?"

Blinking in surprise, Lana asks, "Right now?" with some incredulity.

"No, just—sometime. If you want to."

"Of course."

It becomes a tradition, every other Friday, for Johnny to spend the night at Kit's house with Julia and Thomas so Mary Eunice and Lana have some alone time. (They offer to return the favor, but Kit respectfully declines, and Lana wonders if any of them are happy together.) They make love ferociously, like the world might tear them apart if they don't hold fast to one another. Lana learns to feel the fire in Mary Eunice's kisses, and she leaves marks on her girlfriend's body under the clothes where no one else can see. They memorize the ripples of an orgasm, how each muscle quivers, how the skin twitches. Lana aches on the days between their two days of the month, wanting nothing more than to beg Mary Eunice to come to her and join her on the bed, if only to rest together, if not to make love.

Once, she brings it up. Mary Eunice lies under her arm on the couch, but her shoulders are stiff, and in the silence, she whispers, "I'm sorry." Lana turns off the television and looks at her. Mary Eunice averts her eyes. "I'm behind on rent again." Lana kisses her, hoping to assuage her shame at the request—implied but not explicit. It doesn't ease her sorrow. "I don't mean to keep asking you—one day, I'll pay you back, I swear—"

"No—don't worry about it. Don't." A desperate look tints Mary Eunice's face. "It makes no difference to me. You're worth more than any amount of money. And I have plenty." She dabs at the single tear that has fallen from her girlfriend's eyes. "Don't cry. Please." She clears her throat. "You can move in here if you want."

The blurted words take Mary Eunice aback. "Lana…" She realizes too late bringing it up in this conversation is the wrong place and time. "If—If that's what you want," she hedges, drifting off.

Lana shakes her head. "No. No, forget it. I didn't mean it that way." Relief follows. "But I have a place here for you, should you need it." She knows she doesn't want to live with Johnny. She struggles enough seeing him so often, and Mary Eunice knows it, sees how she strains to maintain even the slightest of courtesy with him. She adores Mary Eunice, but learning to like her son is a never-ending battle. "I just miss you."

"I'm here four days a week."

"At night," Lana says.

Mary Eunice bites the tip of her tongue. "Oh." She rests her head on Lana's shoulder. "You can stay at my apartment whenever you want," she says. "With me. Johnny has his own room now. He never makes a peep at night. We have to be up early, but if you want to stay with us…" Lana agrees. She gets a key to Mary Eunice's apartment later that week. She doesn't stay over often, but sometimes, she awakens from a nightmare in the middle of the night and drives herself down the street, lets herself in the front door, and crawls into bed with her girlfriend. Mary Eunice never questions her. She only scoots over to make more room.

…

Johnny starts school when he's five. He's a year behind Julia and Thomas, who both help him with his homework. At first, Mary Eunice drops him off at school in the morning, and Grace or Alma picks them all up afterward, and she picks him up at Kit's house on her way to Lana's, but it doesn't last. She keeps Johnny home from school the day she hears what happened to Grace and Alma. She calls into work. Her boss tells her it's her last sick day if she wants to keep her job. She agrees. Kit arranges the funeral on a day she doesn't work, and afterward, she clutches at straws to make arrangements for Johnny. Kit gives his kids a key to his house and tells her Johnny can stay with them, like before, but she sees the shadow on his face. She has never paid enough for the daycare they provided, and now, he has lost both mothers to his children. She pleads with her boss to change her hours; he begrudgingly agrees, giving her shorter shifts with fewer days off, so she can get Johnny to and from school twice a week. Twice a week, she lets him go home with Kit's kids.

She never asks Lana to accommodate the fifth day; Lana simply does it without question. Mary Eunice drops him off at her house in the wee hours of the morning before work and finds him there when she gets off, usually buried in his homework or a book. She kisses her girlfriend with a greeting of gratitude each time she finds them like this. Once, she promises to find something else, but Lana shakes her head. "Let me help," she says.

Johnny's school makes things hard. When he's six, he asks her for the first time, "Is Aunt Lana my mommy?" The question knocks all the air out of her, and she whirls around, eyes wide as she regards her son, nothing but innocence written on his face. "All the other kids have mommies and daddies," Johnny explains, "but I don't have a daddy. And Margot told me that mommies and daddies usually kiss and spend a lot of time together, like you and Aunt Lana, so I thought, maybe, Aunt Lana was my mommy, too."

A sigh, equal parts relieved and troubled, leaves Mary Eunice's lungs. "No, sweetie," she says, "Aunt Lana isn't your mommy. She's your godmother." Perhaps it was uncouth of her to appoint a non-Catholic the godmother of her son, but Mary Eunice has given up most of church traditions. She attends every Sunday, and she prays faithfully, but she knows what she forfeited when she chose to walk away from her position as a nun. "Not every kid has a mommy and a daddy. Some kids just have a mommy or just have a daddy, and that's okay."

It sates him temporarily. When he's nine, he asks her again, more forthright. "Mom? Why don't I have a dad?" She tries to dodge the question, but he's too smart for that—he spends his days with his nose in a book, and he says he wants to become a writer. He's slight for his age, and he wears glasses which put Lana out more money than Mary Eunice likes to consider. "I—I know you say I just don't have one, but everybody has one, and—where's mine? What happened to him?"

Mary Eunice clears her throat, and then she lies through her teeth. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She sits on the couch with him. "Your father was a soldier in the war. Do you remember learning about that in school?" He nods. "We weren't married. He wanted that, but I didn't. I wasn't ready for that. I didn't find out I was pregnant until after he was back overseas. And he never came home."

Johnny is crying. Her heart breaks. The truth would hurt him more. But watching him mourn a man who never existed stings. "Why didn't you tell me about him?"

"His family doesn't know about me, or about you. And we have Aunt Lana. I'm in love with her, now."

"She's not a dad."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He hugs her, and she hugs him back, kissing his forehead and sweeping his thick hair out of his eyes. He likes it long, he says; she worries he says that because he doesn't want to spend money at the barber, but she doesn't challenge him. "Mom? Why do some people like men and some people like women?"

She shrugs. "Some people are left-handed instead of right-handed, honey. There isn't a reason. It just is."

"Did you used to like men, then? With my dad?"

She sucks her teeth. She has never known the touch of a man other than her own son; she can't imagine loving anyone in that intimate way except Lana. "No, sweetheart, I was just confused," she says, because it's easier to explain. "But I love you very much. Where you come from, what happened to your father, those things don't matter to me. Do you understand? I don't think you're a mistake."

"I understand." He hesitates. "Is it okay if I like men?"

Her heart skips a beat. "It's okay for you to like whoever you want."

He nods, considering. "What was his name? My dad?"

Mary Eunice answers without thinking, mind on auto-pilot, just wishing for the conversation to end. "Oliver."

She later relays all of the lies to Lana so they'll be consistent. "You couldn't have picked a different name?" Lana fumes. "Millions of names—you could've picked any random one from the Bible! It would've been believable!"

She holds up her hands in self-defense. "I panicked! I wasn't expecting him to ask me anything! I'm not a very good liar!" Perhaps it was naive of her to think for so long that Johnny would just accept his life without a father, never questioning his own origins, but she hadn't prepared any fibs to hold him off. "I thought I had a few years left before he would…" She drifts off. Her heart sinks, and she utters a soft sigh. "I was foolish enough to think I would be enough for him." Lana takes her by the hips and tugs her close, murmuring a reassurance, but even her arms can't banish the sorrowful notion from her mind. As Lana kisses her neck, Mary Eunice tilts her head to grant her better access, but she asks in a whisper, "Do you think I made a mistake?" Lana stops and holds so many questions in her eyes, but she doesn't ask any of them. "Do you think—maybe, he would've been better off if we had let him go?"

Lana touches her cheek, cradling it in her hand. She shakes her head. "I don't think there could be a person on this earth better for him than you are. Or better for me. That's the truth."

"Doesn't he deserve a father?"

"He has God. He has you." Lana caresses Mary Eunice's lips under the pad of her thumb. "When you've got God and you've got Mary, you know you're Jesus." Mary Eunice laughs until Lana kisses it away.

…

One day, when Johnny is eleven, Lana's phone rings in the early afternoon. She answers it. "Lana?" Mary Eunice asks. "I'm sorry, I—someone called in, and I can't go home. I've got to cover her shift." Her voice shakes; Lana can hear the exhaustion, imagine it in her azure eyes, and regret poisons her blood. "Could you please pick up Johnny from school? I'm so sorry, I already called Kit, but he's out of town for the week—"

"I can do it," Lana says. "Don't apologize." She always tells Mary Eunice this. It never stops her from apologizing over and over again. "What time will you be home?"

Mary Eunice heaves a sigh. "Tomorrow morning," she whispers in a defeated voice. Lana bites back a snarl. She knows it will only hurt Mary Eunice if she lashes out now. "Tell him I'm sorry. And—oh, he's been struggling with his math homework. Sixth grade math has me stymied, but if you know how to—"

"Mary Eunice," Lana placates. "This might surprise you, but I'm not a terrible babysitter, okay? I'll help him with his math. Maybe I'll even decide he deserves to be fed." Mary Eunice sputters on the other end of the line. "I love you. Take care of yourself."

Her voice is warm in spite of its tiredness. "I love you, too, Lana. Thank you."

At three, Lana drives to the junior high and pulls through, and at the sight of her car, Johnny approaches, a frown on his face. "Aunt Lana? Mom is supposed to pick me up today, isn't she?" His life is a tangle of inconsistencies, and Lana wonders if he deserves a steadier means of living. No, she decides. No one has ever left him at the school; Mary Eunice has to juggle him with her job, but she always ensures he has a roof over his head and food in his belly. Maybe something else would be ideal, but he has never gone hungry.

"Somebody called in at the hospital. You're crashing with me tonight."

His eyes brighten. "Cool!" He slides into the front seat beside her, pushing his too-large glasses up on his nose, which magnify his saucer-like eyes. The sunlight filters onto his freckled face. He has a bruise on the underside of his jaw, which makes Lana trouble her lower lip between her teeth. "Can I read at your house?"

She chuckles, raising an eyebrow. "You can do whatever you want after you finish your homework," she tells him, though he doesn't usually require the prompting; he's a good student. She thanks Julia and Thomas for wearing off on him. "What happened to your face?"

"What happened to your face?" She chokes at the sharp retort. "Sorry—I didn't mean that, I was with Sam—it's hard to turn it off." He massages the bruise on his jaw. "Please don't tell Mom."

Lana has priorities which don't involve Johnny being a smart-ass. He's a reader, after all; he's bound to develop a sense of sarcasm. "Already forgotten. Who hit you?"

He shrugs. "Nobody." She looks at him from the corner of her eye as she drives down the street, careful to observe the droves of children crossing the street on their walks home. At her unwavering look, he sighs. "Tobias Wendell," he mutters. She recognizes the name. "He won't leave me and Sam alone. Him and his cronies. They're a bunch of Socs."

In spite of herself, Lana snorts at the reference. "That would make you a Greaser, then?"

"Stay gold, Ponyboy."

She laughs, and he grins. Like his mother, he sparkles when he's happy; he has a certain glow he takes when the people around him reassure him of his worth. "You're a nerd," she says. "Don't worry about the bullies. One day, they'll be working for you. They'll be your cronies, so to speak. Nerds always get their revenge."

His smile fades a little, but it remains on his face nonetheless. "I don't want anyone to work for me." His feet drum on the floorboards of the car, tapping out a rhythm to the rumble of the motor, syncopating whenever she uses the turn signal. The radio hums, low and soft; she can't remember how long it's been since she turned it off or changed the station. "I want to be a writer, like you."

"You want to be a journalist?" Lana asks.

He nods. "Not a television one, though. You have to be good-looking for that. I want to write books. True stories."

"Where are you going to start?"

"I want to write a book about Mom."

"You think Mom's that interesting?"

"You don't?"

She chuckles. "Most people would say I'm biased." But his interest concerns her. Mary Eunice has lied to him about everything—he doesn't know she was ever a nun. He doesn't know she ever worked at Briarcliff. He thinks she met Lana in high school; he thinks they've been friends since forever and lovers since his conception. If he probes, it could all fall apart. The whole web could unravel. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. "Do you like to write fictional stories, too?"

Johnny doesn't notice her intentional shifting of the subject. "Yeah! Mrs. Summers says I'm the best creative writer in my class. She always reads what I write as an example. Tobias hates it." He seems to draw a great measure of joy from miffing his enemy through his academic superiority. "Me and Sam—"

"Sam and I," Lana corrects on reflex.

"Sam and I are writing a comic together. He's doing the art. And I'm writing the dialogue and the script. Sam's a really talented artist." Johnny's eyes haze, all dreamy, and Lana smiles at him at the sight. "I really like him," he says, a quiet afterthought. "Most boys don't like boys, do they?"

Lana shrugs. "Most boys like girls, I think. But that doesn't mean he does. I used to think your mom liked boys." Your mom used to be married to the biggest man of all time. Your mom used to be married to God. "You never know. You're still young. You'll figure it out."

Johnny nods, but his thoughts race across his face. "Mom says I'm not supposed to tell anyone about you and her, because most people don't understand. What if Sam doesn't understand? What if he doesn't want to be my friend anymore? I still want to be his friend, even if he doesn't like me back."

"Sometimes that's just a risk you have to take. But if he's the type of person who will be angry at you for who you love, is that really the type of person you want to be your friend?" He grunts with agreement at her words.

That night, Lana orders a pizza for them. She brings it to the kitchen table where Johnny has sprawled out with all of his books. He's chewing the end of his pen, staring at a blank piece of paper in a notebook, only his name written at the top; he only glances up when she opens the pizza box. "Oh! Thanks. Pepperoni! Mom hates pepperoni." He picks up one piece with no hesitation, getting red grease all over his hands.

She sits beside him and takes a small piece. "I know. Cheese pizza is boring." She lies to him; she knows Mary Eunice only fibs about liking cheese pizza because of how she feels about money and spending it on unnecessary toppings. "Writer's block?" she asks. "You've been staring at that piece of paper for almost an hour, you know."

He nods, the corners of his eyes creasing. "We have to write an essay about our dads," he mumbles. Oh. "I kept blowing it off, but it's due tomorrow…" Suddenly, the vigor with which he seizes the pizza disappears. His enthusiasm about the pepperoni leaves him, instead a sorrow in his eyes. "I tried to ask Mrs. Summers for a different assignment, but she didn't understand what I meant when I said I didn't have a dad."

"Shitty teacher," Lana says. As he winces at her curse, she apologizes. "Write about your mom."

"I can't. We did an essay over our moms last month. We had to give a presentation and everything, and—ugh, everyone's going to look at me stupid and sorry if I get up in front of them and talk about my dead dad. I don't even have a picture of him to show." He scuffs his toes over the carpet and wipes off the corners of his mouth with the napkin, staring down at the blank piece of paper. "Do you think I could just make something up? Not something too cool, or anything, but just so I don't embarrass myself."

She gives him a soft look. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, you know. Not everyone has a normal family. If you tell everyone the truth, I guarantee there's at least one other kid in that room who will feel glad that they're not the only one without a dad." She can't believe it's been almost ten years since she caught him from falling in her kitchen, since his tiny arms hugged her so tight. He still likes to give hugs. She has learned to keep herself from tensing, and he has learned to ask first. She doesn't look for a connection in his eyes anymore. She isn't his mother, and she doesn't feel a maternal bond for him, but she loves him the way she should love her godson—perhaps a muted form of love, but present, nonetheless. "Does that make sense?"

He nods. "I still don't know what to write about." He flips the pen in his hand between his fingers. "I have to write about something. Thomas said I could write about Uncle Kit, but I thought that would be weird, since they both wrote about him last year…We all get enough shit from the other kids without making it weird." Lana glares at him for the curse word, and he says, "What? You just said it."

She arches an eyebrow. "I'm allowed to curse. You're not."

Drumming his fingers on the table, he nods, too preoccupied with the assignment to fathom a good response. "Can I write about you?" he asks.

She blinks, taken aback by this suggestion. "What if the teacher wants you to write an essay about your godmother next?" she counters.

"Please, Aunt Lana? If I can't write about you, it's just Aunt Alma and Aunt Grace, and then people really will make fun of me if I tell them one of my old babysitters killed the other one, and Thomas and Julia will kill me. We don't have any other family."

That's not fair, Lana. Let him write about you. Part of her still resents him, his existence, and the thought of him conceptualizing her as a parental figure stings. She severed herself from him from the moment of his birth to give him the best chance at a normal life. But is she not the closest thing to a second parent he has ever known? "You can write about me," she says. "But on one condition." He waits with bated breath. "Make me sound really cool, okay? None of that moody pre-teen lame parent stuff. Make me a real badass. Deal?"

He grins from ear to ear. "Deal!" He high-fives her, and then he sets to work on his essay, pizza left to the wayside.

When he finishes, he brings a book to the couch. This is what she likes best about Johnny, the silence they can share. He doesn't demand for anyone to entertain him. She turns the page of her own book, not expecting him to say anything at all—usually he sits beside her and opens to his bookmarked page, and they spend the final hours waiting for Mary Eunice to get home from work in silence, interrupted only if he encounters an unfamiliar word or concept—but instead, he looks up at her before he even opens his novel. "Aunt Lana?" She dog-ears the page of her book and looks at him. "Can I read your book?"

She frowns. She doesn't understand the question—she thinks he refers to the book in her hand, which she has only gotten halfway through. "I'm kind of in the middle of it."

"No—I mean, the one you wrote."

"Oh." Her blood shivers. He hasn't made her skin freeze like this in a long time, but the chill aches now. She changed Mary Eunice's name in her novel, knowing he would likely one day hear about her book, if he didn't read it himself, but something inside of her smolders at the thought of allowing to Johnny to read about his own father unknowingly. "You'll have to ask your mom." She decides this is the best answer. "You should wait until you're older. You'll understand it better, then."

"It's a true story, isn't it?" She nods. "How much older? I like true stories."

She chuckles at him. "Fifteen," she says. "If your mom says it's okay."

"How would she know if it's okay? She only ever reads her Bible. She never reads good books. It's so boring."

"Don't talk about your mom that way." Lana swats him on top of the head with a rolled up newspaper she'd used to flap the flies away. "She doesn't read well. You know that. Spelling is hard for her. The letters get all jumbled up in her head." She knows Mary Eunice isn't slow, but she also knows Mary Eunice is ashamed of her lacking academic capabilities, the frustrations which drove her to drop out of school and into the arms of the church.

Johnny tries to take the newspaper away from her, but she snatches it back before he can seize it. "I know," he says. "Sam has dyslexia, too. I didn't mean it that way. Just that she doesn't enjoy a good book."

Lana places the newspaper back on the end table, safe out of range to keep them from getting into a sword fight with it. "She does, though. She doesn't like to read with her eyes, because it frustrates her, but she loves to hear you tell stories. That's why she enjoys church so much." Johnny regards her with wonder mixed with confusion. Lana clears her throat. "Church is just glorified storytelling, isn't it? It's the only way she can get someone to read to her without having to ask for it." The epiphany sinks over his face, enlightening him with each inch it travels across his skin. His eyes share the color of Lana's, but his expressiveness comes from Mary Eunice without a shadow of a doubt. Lana needs a moment to collect herself with the next words she speaks, a half-lie, but the important part is true. "I read my entire book aloud to her when she was pregnant with you. From front to back. She was the first person to hear every word, before it ever touched a shelf. She loved it."

Several weeks later, Mary Eunice comes armed with the full plot of the Outsiders, Johnny's favorite book, prepared to debate in the defense of her favorite character, the soft young man who shares her son's name. While Johnny spends the night at Sam's house, Lana and Mary Eunice draw swords, the fictional Johnny versus Dally, the rough around the edges greaser who martyrs himself in grief. They bicker, and then they debate, and then they wrestle, and at some point, their clothes come off, and Lana whispers, "Dally is better," right before she dips her tongue into her girlfriend's belly button. Mary Eunice howls with laughter. Lana never admits to giving Johnny the tip, but each time Mary Eunice approaches her with a new book completed, she thanks the meager mercy of the heavens for giving him a heart as soft as the woman who adopted him.

…

In the summer before his sophomore year of high school, Johnny appears on her doorstep on the hottest day of the year, carrying a gallon of milk in each hand and a heavy backpack weighing him down. She opens the door to let him in. "Johnny—" She sweeps him with her gaze, sunburnt and sweating, flushed from head to toe. "What the hell? It's too hot for you to be outside—what are you doing with two gallons of milk?"

He waddles through her door, panting heavily. "It's cooler out there than it is in the apartment," he mutters. Lana lifts the backpack from him—it's cool to the touch, but weighed down, filled to the brim with frozen and cold goods. "The jackass landlord killed the power. He said we have until next week—" Tears sting the corner of his eyes, filling them, and he chokes up. He stops talking until he can manage it without weeping. "Mom just went grocery shopping yesterday. I got as much as I could out of there, so it wouldn't all melt—the meat might be spoilt, I don't know. The whole apartment turned into an oven. I thought my face would melt off before I got out of there."

Following him to the kitchen, Lana unzips the backpack and empties it on the counter. "You should've called me." He opens the fridge and the freezer, temporarily letting the cold air fan over him before he begins putting away Mary Eunice's frozen edibles. "Why didn't she tell me she was behind again?"

He sighs. "I don't know. Honestly, I think she forgot this time. Her goddamn boss—he's working her six days a week." Lana's heart aches. She has seen less of Mary Eunice lately—and more of the dark circles under her eyes when she comes around—but she hadn't realized the gravity of the situation. "Seven when he can wrench it out of her. Sixty-five, seventy hours a week. He's threatening to get rid of her if she can't keep up, and she thinks she needs the money. I offered to help, I did, but she won't take anything from me—" His voice breaks. "She's afraid I won't be able to go to college, she wants me to save—I don't even want to go to college if she's still going to be living like this without me—"

"Hey." Lana places a hand on his arm. "You're a good student. You're going to college. You'll get good scholarships if you apply for them." His skin is hot to the touch. She can't tell if the tracks on his face are from tears, sweat, or snot. "I opened a savings account for you when you were born. It hasn't been touched except for deposits since then. Your mom knows that it's for you. You don't have to worry about affording college."

He averts her eyes from hers, staring into the fridge. Goosebumps have appeared all over his arms and legs. "What's going to happen to her?" he asks. "When I'm gone?"

"I'll take care of her. Whatever she wants. If she wants to keep her apartment, or if she wants to move in here—I won't let her want for anything. Don't worry about her." He shudders with a half-suppressed sob. Mary Eunice has never told him that boys don't cry, but he learned it, anyway, at school, and even with their reassurance, he finds it hard to let himself break. "Do you understand? It's your mom's job to worry about you. Not the other way around. I'll take care of her." Johnny shivers, covering his mouth with his hand. "Go sit down," she says. "Read for a little bit. I'll put this up, and then I'll run to the bank so your mom can pay the rent and utilities when she gets home."

He obeys her, resting there on the couch with fat tears running down his cheeks. When she finishes putting away the salvaged frozen goods, she brings him a bottle of water. His hands shake too hard for him to open it, so she cracks it open for him, and he drinks with the same fervor he demonstrated when she nursed him after his birth. "Don't make yourself sick," she cautions, and then he slows down, but he still has less than half of a bottle left when he finishes. "You can take a shower, if you want. Cool off a little."

He nods, eyes averted, swollen and sorrowful. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge in on you like this."

"If there's ever an excuse to barge in, I think baking in your own house is it."

A tiny, wry smile creases his lips. "Thank you." She leans back, preparing to stand, but he asks, "Aunt Lana?" and she pauses. His lower lip trembles. "Can I hug you?" She nods.

He's wet from head to toe and smells like a boys' locker room, but he buries his face in the crook of her neck and weeps. She pats him on the back. Through his shirt, she can feel the ribs of his slight form; he still has grown no taller than her, and she wonders if he will remain like her, or if he will go through another growth spurt to look more like his father. She prays not. "It's okay," she soothes him. "It's okay. I promise." She mops a hand through his sweaty, dark hair, which falls around his shoulders.

By the time Mary Eunice comes to her house, Johnny has fallen asleep on the couch. Mary Eunice unlocks the door with her key and enters to Lana draping the couch throw over him and tucking a pillow under his head. "Lana? What's he doing here?" Her eyes are wide with fear. "Is he hurt?"

Lana shakes her head and greets her with a kiss, but Mary Eunice dodges it; she doesn't mess around where her son is concerned. "He's fine," Lana says. She tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind Mary Eunice's ear. "The power went out in the apartment. He packed up all of the frozen goods and came here." Mary Eunice's face falls, and she closes her eyes, a shaky sigh leaving her lips. Lana offers a tender kiss right to her lips. She caves, shuffling near to Lana and hugging her, too weak and exhausted to clutch tight. "It's okay. You can pay the rent and the utilities tomorrow."

The reassurance doesn't keep Mary Eunice from weeping. Lana tucks her into bed and then sits beside her, offering her own chest as a pillow; she knows Mary Eunice is too tired to make love now, even if Johnny weren't just a wall away. Mary Eunice shivers. "I'm sorry," she weeps. "It doesn't matter what I do—I'm always behind on something…" She sniffles. Snot runs all over the front of Lana's shirt. "I'm no good at this, Lana, I never should've left the church." Lana hushes her, more out of fear of Johnny overhearing than anything else, but it still unsettles her, her hopelessness. "Sister Jude was right. I'm just—I'm just stupid. I can't even read, how am I supposed to be raising a child?"

Lana kisses the top of her head, but she doesn't interrupt. She allows Mary Eunice to finish. "I'm a horrible nurse. I can't stand up for myself, I get paid less than everyone else, I'm a total doormat, but if I say anything, he'll f-fire me, and then I'll be in deep shit."

"No, you won't. You'll be here, with me." Lana smooths her hair back. "You've just got a few years before Johnny goes to college, and then you can move in with me. Once he has his own place, you can leave behind that horrible apartment forever."

Mary Eunice shakes her head. "I'm not going to be able to send Johnny to college! He's always trying to help me pay the bills—I don't take it, but I know sometimes he puts it in my purse and he thinks I won't notice, like I won't notice twenty dollars magically appearing there."

"You don't have to send Johnny to college. I have a savings account for him. You know that. It should be more than enough to cover tuition and board with some left over. I've been putting as much as I can in it with every paycheck since he was christened."

Big azure eyes flick up to her, mesmerized, awestruck by her words. Her pink lips, swollen from weeping, buffer against one another with shock. She grunts a few broken syllables before she manages to say in a squeak, "But…" She blinks hard. "I thought you pulled from that when you paid our bills—it's got to be almost empty by now, as often as I can't make ends meet."

Lana shakes her head. "No, sunshine, no." She uses her thumbs to wipe away the streaks of tears on her cheeks. "I haven't touched that account since I opened it."

Mary Eunice touches Lana's cheek, cradling it in her own palm. "But—that was all for Johnny, because otherwise I would live with you… because you're his godmother…"

Nuzzling into Mary Eunice's palm, Lana kisses it. "It was for both of you. You're my family now." She doesn't think of Johnny as her son, but she loves him. She isn't certain when it developed. The days when she can't stand to see him, when his presence makes her chest swell with anxiety, are few and far between. Perhaps the long-term exposure has numbed her at this point, or perhaps she loves Mary Eunice so much that she must by default also love her son. He's just like her, now. She can almost forget the unholy union which bore him when she sees them together, sees how he mirrors Mary Eunice's mannerisms, the way he teases his hair, the way he shivers when he cries, the way he burrows his face into her neck and wraps his arms around in that way when he hugs her. "I love you, Mary Eunice."

Mary Eunice cries some more. She resists taking the money Lana gives to her, protesting, "I can't—I can't take anything else from you," until Lana kisses her and tucks the money into the pocket of her skirt. She accepts the kiss and heaves a wearied sigh. "Johnny's birthday is next month."

"He can have whatever he wants."

"You can't buy it." Lana blinks in surprise. "He wants to read your book," Mary Eunice explains. "He says you told him he can read it when he's fifteen—I just wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I gave him my copy. If you think it's okay… I trust you."

Lana traces the faint freckles on her neck with her index finger. "Either he's going to read it now, with our blessing," she says, "or he's going to sneak and read it behind your back, or he's going to wait until he's eighteen and read it then."

"Johnny's not like that."

Arching an eyebrow, Lana chuckles. "Don't be naive. He's a teenager who likes books. Be glad he's not a teenager who likes drugs." Mary Eunice laughs, nuzzling into Lana's chest, stringing her arms around her neck. "When I was his age, I would do anything to get my hands on the book I wanted. Nineteen Eighty Four was a big forbidden title, then. Anything by Mark Twain. Once, I started babysitting just so I could get out of the house long enough to finish the book I was reading without my parents noticing."

Mary Eunice snorts. "You sound like a horrible babysitter."

"Oh, I hated it. All of the kids hated me. I could never keep a job."

"You're okay with him reading it, then?" Lana nods. "Thank you. I won't let him ask you any questions. But I can't stop him from giving you a big hug, because you know he'll want to."

Lana grins. "I know."

They celebrate Johnny's birthday with a cake. Lana gives him a stack of books, which makes Mary Eunice give her a withering look. "You better get him a bookshelf for Christmas. He can use the library, you know. It's a ten minute walk from here." Johnny eagerly tears into the tall stack of books, picking up each one and devouring the back cover and smelling the new book smell.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Lana kisses her neck, and the frown vanishes from her face, replaced by her usual smile. "He gets a bookshelf for Christmas," she promises, "only because this apartment looks like a tornado went through the library and deposited half of the books here in a random order." At the bottom of the stack of books, Johnny lifts up Maniac. Mary Eunice swats Lana, a peeved look of, That's what I got him! on her face. "I thought he deserved his own copy. Make it worth more in a few years."

Johnny flips open the front cover. "To Johnny," he reads aloud the note she has written in the inside of it, "thank you for your patience in the years I wasn't able to share this with you. I know you've heard rumors, and I appreciate you keeping an open mind. I'm ready, now, for you to know my story. With all my love, your godmother, Lana Winters." He hugs her so tight, she can hardly breathe, and before he relinquishes her, he peeks at Mary Eunice with wide, pleading eyes to ask, "Mom, can I—"

"Absolutely not! No reading at the dinner table. I don't care that it's your birthday."

For the next three days, Lana hears radio silence from Johnny. On the second day, Mary Eunice comes to her house from work. "Is it okay if I stay here tonight?" she asks. "I know Johnny won't have gotten his nose out of that book yet. He told me this morning not to worry about dinner."

Lana kisses her. "I'm glad to have you." Mary Eunice's wearied body receives all of her love, though she doesn't offer her own in return. Lana doesn't mind. She knows her girlfriend works too hard for too little; she doesn't want to be another stressor in her life. "He starts school after Labor Day, right?" Mary Eunice nods. "So a few more weeks." She hums. "I'm sorry, I know you're tired. I'll shut up."

"Mm…" Mary Eunice blinks up at her with groggy eyes. "I like hearing your voice when I fall asleep." Her eyelashes drag across Lana's skin. "I like it when you hold me like this." She kisses Lana's neck, a light thing. "I want to do this every night, once Johnny goes to college. I want us to be like this, for real."

"I promise," Lana says. "You'll get as much of this as you want."

Her eyes shut, drifting lazily but landing hard enough for Lana to know they won't open again. "Will you read to me?" Mary Eunice asks. Lana opens the book on the bedside table and begins to read right where she left off in the middle of the chapter. Within minutes, Mary Eunice falls asleep.

On the third day, while Mary Eunice is at work, Lana sits outside in the fair weather, summer turning to autumn, and reads out in the breeze where she can enjoy the end of the bitterly hot summer. She sees him coming, because he's running—he's always been a quick kid, but he's all legs, so it's easy to pick him out like a baby horse that hasn't yet grown into itself. She stands to greet him, but he wraps her up in another hug like the one he gave her on his birthday. All of the muscles in her back tense; she didn't have time to prepare herself, and her body shudders its distaste at the sudden arms around her. He breaks apart at the feeling. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—Are you okay?" He's been crying. She nods and hugs him—for the first time in his life, she hugs him, and they both relax.

She takes him inside. "Do you have any questions?" she asks.

"Mom said I wasn't allowed to ask any questions." But his eyes burn with curiosity, the insatiable need of any reader to know more than the writer revealed in the book.

Lana flashes a smile. "I won't answer if I don't want to, alright? You can go ahead and ask." She wonders if she will regret allowing him this freedom, but she knows the questions will eat him alive if he doesn't ask them; they will come out, eventually, and she prefers to hear them now.

He bites his lip. Then, he says, "Wendy," and Lana wonders how long it's been since she heard someone else say that name. She decorates the grave once a month, sometimes with Mary Eunice at her side, never with Johnny accompanying—she cannot bring herself to take the son of Wendy's murderer to her gravesite. "Was she… your girlfriend? Before Mom?" Lana nods. "Is that why you never sold the house to move in with us? Because she picked out this house?"

Part of the reason. Lana wants to say, so she does. "Part of the reason." I still have days when looking at you is unbearable. No matter how you're your mother's son, I have days when I see him in you. I have to be able to get away from you without hurting you. "It isn't safe for your mother and me to be together in an apartment. It would be much easier for someone to catch us if we lived so close to other people, and a landlord could throw us out without notice. It's safer for us here."

"Oh." He drums his toes in the carpet and curls them there, tangling with the shag fibres. "Did your baby have a name?"

Lana shakes her head. Lying is almost too easy. "I was giving him away. They had already positioned an adoptive family for him anonymously, but I never met them. It was their loss, not mine." Perhaps it sounds cold. It is cold. She doesn't care. She needs to be as honest with him as possible, so she is.

He pauses, thinking long and deep. Then he asks, "Why didn't you talk about my mom at all? Where was she? Why didn't she get you out of the asylum—or notice you were missing?"

Again, she lies. "She was busy with your father, then. She knew about me and Wendy, but she wasn't sure about herself, yet. She was confused. And she was very, very sorry when she heard what had happened to me. She stayed with me until you were born, a week after my baby."

"If you and Mom are together, is it possible they could try to put you both back in the sanitarium?" Johnny bites his lip; Lana can read the fear in his eyes, the panic at the notion of losing his mother to the legal system. Don't frighten him, she cautions herself.

"It's possible, but I doubt it. They confined me because I was nosy and wouldn't stay out of their business. It just so happened that they had grounds to hold me, legally, and a person willing to sign me over."

"Do you resent her for that? Wendy?"

"I don't resent her for anything, no." Lana drums her fingers on the arm of the couch, nervous with the direction the conversation had taken. She hasn't talked about Wendy in so long. At the mention of her, her heart aches with longing, and she wishes Mary Eunice were here for her to discuss her hurting parts. "She wouldn't have been put in that position if I hadn't gone to the asylum in the first place."

He hesitates. "Are you saying you blame yourself?"

This question gives her pause. She has to avert her eyes from his face to consider what he asked her. He asked it with such gentleness, like he didn't want to ask it at all, and his face is as soft as his mother's, as understanding, as loving. "Not as much as I did at one time," she answers after a silence. "But—yes. It's something I'm working on. Something your mother helps me with a lot."

A frown tickles his lips before tugging them down into a full pout, an internal debate playing on his face while he decides whether or not he can ask her his next question. Lana braces herself, but she expects worse than what he asks. "Do you love her more than my mom?"

Lana shakes her head. "Not more," she says. "Just differently."

That answer sates him, and they prepare dinner for when Mary Eunice gets home.

…

In the last week of summer, Johnny practically lives at her house. "Sorry," he says one day, backpack filled with books. "We just got new downstairs neighbors, and they have a newborn baby, and I can't focus—I don't mean to—" She waves him off into silence and ushers him into the house. "Thanks. Sam's on vacation. I hate just sitting around the house alone. My manager doesn't need me at work enough. My brain is wasting away."

"Clearly not, if you've read that many books." Lana gestures to the backpack. "Is that this week's load?"

"Last week's. After I finish this one, I'm going to walk to the library and take them all back."

"Alright. I was about to start lunch. Any preferences?"

"Is starving until Mom gets home a preference?"

Lana laughs. "No, it's not. You'll eat my tasteless food, and you'll enjoy it. That's your punishment for never leaving here." He rolls his eyes. "When did you become such a smart ass? You didn't get it from your mom."

"It's all the books you gave me. They made me smart enough to develop sarcasm." But in spite of her teasing, Johnny leaves his book in the floor and heads into the kitchen with her. He has learned to help Mary Eunice cook. "Are we making spaghetti?" She shrugs and nods, and he puts a pot of water on the stove to boil while she warms the sauce in another pan on the stove. "Mom loves spaghetti. I think it's her favorite meal ever."

She makes it so often because it's cheap. Lana doesn't tell him this; Mary Eunice finally agreed to let him give her part of his paycheck, and she knows he's proud of himself for providing a little to support his family. "Then you'll have to help me make it just the way she likes it," she says instead.

After lunch, Johnny spends a few hours finishing his book while Lana scripts the next episode of her show and the topics she wants to explore when filming begins again. "I'm going to the library," Johnny tells her. "I have the list of what I'm looking for, so I should be in and out quick." Lana hums, not really listening to him—he's fifteen, after all, more than old enough to take himself to the library and back without her breathing down his neck. She isn't sure what time it is when he leaves.

She is sure, however, when she looks up from her script and the clock reads five PM, that he should have returned by now. She stands from her hunched position over the table, popping her back, and walks to the window, peeking out at the late afternoon sky. As far as she can see, no one travels the sidewalks. This isn't good. She goes to the telephone and asks the operator, "Can you connect me to the library?" When the librarian answers, she says, "Hi—this is Lana Winters." She hopes the librarian has seen them in the library together enough to feel comfortable giving her information about his whereabouts. "My godson, Johnny McKee, is he there? Or have you seen him? He walked there awhile ago, and he hasn't come back yet."

The librarian tuts, like she's trying to remember. "I saw him, I did, but it's been an hour ago, at least. Diane? Did you check out Johnny McKee? Teenage boy, shoulder-long dark hair, skinny as a maypole, big honking glasses." Lana can't hear the other woman's answer, but the woman on the phone says, "Yes, he was in here, but he checked out forty-five minutes ago. We'll have someone glance around outside for him, alright? See if he wound up reading under the trees or something."

Lana pinches the bridge of her nose. Fuck. "Yes. Thank you, thank you." She clears her throat. "Bye." She hangs up the phone. Both eyes on the clock, she waits ten more minutes, praying, hoping, for Johnny to stumble through the front door, or for the librarian to call her back and confirm she had found him. I lost Mary Eunice's kid. Her heart in her throat, she watches the second hand tick by, every sixty seconds burning her. It isn't like him to wander off. Johnny had never made friends easily. He stuck close to the few kids he had known since entering school, Julia and Sam and Thomas; he would never take off with total strangers. He was a mama's boy. Lana paces, her hand in her hair, across the floor of the living room. What should I do?

She looks up to the clock again. Mary Eunice gets home in half an hour. She clears her throat and tilts her head back. No, she can't wait for Mary Eunice to get home. Scribbling a note, she writes, "Gone to the library. Be home soon," and signs her name before she darts out the front door and heads down the street she knows Johnny takes to the library. "Johnny?" she calls each time she heads down a new block. "Johnny?" It takes her twenty minutes to reach the library, but she sees no sign of him. Oh my god. Lana paces outside the front of the building, hoping for him to make an appearance, but he doesn't; people filter in and out of the library, all of them ogling at her where she sweats and dances from one side of the sidewalk to the other.

Finally, a man approaches her. "Ma'am, can I… help you?" She glances up at him. He has his wallet in his hand. "I've got a dime, if you need to make a phone call. Are you waiting for someone?"

She shakes her head. "No—No, I'm fine." I'm not fine. I've got to head back home. I've got to keep looking for him. I've got to call the police. "Thank you." She walks away from her, a slight jog in her step as she escapes the clutches of the well-intentioned man. The humid late summer air clings to her, beading on her skin alongside her sweat. She marches down the main street, peeking at every house and business. "Johnny?" she calls, her voice growing in desperation and in volume.

At the mouth of a side alley, she spies a sneaker—a red sneaker, one she recognizes, because she bought it for him. "Johnny?" She screams his name down the alley, which ends in a dead end and dumpster; her voice echoes back at her. She hears him before she sees him, not a word but a bellow of pain. Without thought, Lana races down the alley, her shoes crunching in old glass; he rounds the dumpster, blood running down his face, and greets her, but he stumbles, and it slows him enough for two other boys to jump on him. She lunges forward to catch him, some part of her remembering the piece of herself which had scooped him up when he was a toddler and kept him from falling on her kitchen floor when he tried to wear her high heels, but she falls short, and he lands on his face on the asphalt.

Johnny thrashes where he lies on the ground in the mess of broken glass. One boy smashes his bleeding face onto the ground. The other sits on top of him with both knees. But they look at her, gaping, the expression of uh-oh palpable on their faces. Johnny tries to wriggle enough to look at her. "Aunt Lana—" His voice breaks off, weeping. The boys have torn his clothing and left gashes all over his body. "Watch out, there's—" The boy slaps him so he shuts up.

A third boy saunters around the dumpster with a switchblade in his hand. Lana's breath hitches in her chest. She doesn't run—she can't. She won't leave Johnny here. If she runs—and it's unlikely she can outrun three teenage boys, she knows—every minute she spends trying to call the police is a minute they can kill him. The boy fingers his knife. "Keep the faggot quiet," he says to his henchmen.

"Tobias—" Lana remembers this name. "Tobias, we should get outta here, before the cops show up!" He ignores the other boy and instead approaches Lana; he stands a head taller than her, brawnier across the shoulders, a fat gut wobbling whenever he walks. When she must crane her neck to look at his face, he halts, near enough for her to smell his cologne, but she does not take a step back. She doesn't even blink. Her heart thunders so loud, she almost can't hear the boys speak. "Tobias, leave 'er alone! She's just an old broad! You know the rules—we don't mess with girls."

"Maybe it's time the rules change." His shadow blocks out the sun, blotting out the sky; he covers her the way Thredson once did. He holds the knife out to her. The blade touches the surface of the skin on her throat where she already bears a scar—where another man tried and failed to slit her throat. "You don't have much fight in you, do you, old lady?" His foul smelling breath wafts across her face. "How much fight can I wring out of you?"

"More than you've got," Lana mutters.

One of the boys on the ground curses and flings backward, gripping a bleeding hand where Johnny sank his teeth into the fleshy palm. "Don't touch her!" Johnny shrieks. "Don't touch her!" His desperate scream holds no threat, only pain, but he bucks against his last restraint like a frightened wild horse bound in a lasso for the first time. "Leave her alone!"

Tobias turns his back on her. "Dude, I told you to keep the queer quiet!" Like a cat, Lana pounces on his back. The weight catches him off-balance. He dives to the ground, catching himself with his hands; the blade cuts into his palm, and he howls like a wounded animal caught in the trap. He grapples for her, rolling beneath her, trying to get on top of her and pin her down. "Crazy bitch!" Lana drapes, weak and useless, over him for a moment, just long enough for him to pitch her to the side so she can seize the knife by the handle.

Johnny wails her name, bleating like a lost lamb, but his voice dies off in retching. She bounces back to her feet, brandishing the knife at the three boys; she starts by pointing at the one who has just stomped on the crotch of Johnny's pants so he collapses in his own vomit in the broken glass. "Are you done?" she asks in a low whisper. The two younger boys nod, but the third holds his head tall, jaw set, both eyes pinned on the knife, trying to figure out how he can win it back from her. "If you ever lay a finger on my godson—ever again, or any of his friends, or his mother, or anyone else you think would get to him—I swear to god, I will castrate you with this knife right here and make you eat your balls, and you can explain to your mothers why they won't have any grandchildren. Get the hell out of here."

The two younger boys dart away. The third remains. "Bitch, you don't even know how to use that." He takes two confident steps toward her. Johnny tries to wrap himself around the boy's ankle to hold him back, but the boy kicks him square in the face without even looking down. Lana waits for him to reach for her, which he does. She snaps the knife down on the back of his exposed arm. "Ow!" Snapping back, he withdraws his bleeding arm. "What's your problem, you psycho bitch?"

"My problem?" Lana stands back and laughs bitterly. "I don't have a problem. You're the one who picks on smaller boys so you feel better about your tiny cock." His face fumes bright red. He lunges for her. She side-steps and hooks out her leg so he stumbles. Shoving him from behind, he lands square on his face. He groans, long and deep. "Get the hell out of here, before I decide to call your parents and tell them what you were doing back here—where you really got that cut, and what happened to your father's switchblade."

He doesn't need any more motivation. As he stumbles back to his feet, he staggers back up the alley, not so much as glancing back at her or Johnny. Folding the blade back into the handle and tucking it into the pocket of her skirt, Lana kneels beside Johnny. He peeks up at her with awestruck eyes, brown and loving. "You found me," he whispers. Blood runs out of his mouth and from his nose. "That was really badass." She takes him under the arms. He winces as she struggles to lift him, but neither of them utter a complaint. Once she props him up in a sitting position, she moves his head by the chin, looking at his cheek, where the broken glass ground his flesh to a pulp. "Please don't tell Mom," he whispers.

"What?"

"I—I don't want her to worry…" He coughs. It makes him wince and touch his own sore chest. "Tell her I got hit by a car or something…"

Lana touches the other cheek, cut but not as horribly as the other cheek. "I've got to tell her the truth. She deserves to know." Fat tears roll from his eyes. He hisses as they burn in all of the cuts covering his face. "Come here. Lean on me. You've got to stand up." She hoists him under the arms, and he fights to climb to his feet, whole face twisting in agony, one hand flying to the crotch of his pants. Vomit streaks down his torn clothes; the stench permeates from him. "Are you okay to walk? Is anything broken?" He shakes his head as his pallor whitens.

A walk which usually takes fewer than ten minutes takes them thirty-five minutes, gradually slowing as all of the adrenaline leaves Lana's wearied body. She aches from tussling with the boys like a teenager again. Her body burns. She regrets letting the largest boy drop her so effortlessly just in an attempt to get the knife from him. When they stop to rest at one stop sign, less than a block away from Lana's house, he whispers, "You didn't have to fight for me like that." He reclines his head on her shoulder. With each passing minute, he grows heavier, and Lana doesn't know if it's because her muscles are tired or if it's because he's leaning harder on her, struggling to hold up his own weight. "You could've run off 'n called the cops. I wouldn't have been mad. I was worried they were about to kill you."

"I was worried they were about to kill you," Lana counters. "I couldn't have left you there. Three on one isn't a fair fight. It might have taken ten or fifteen minutes for the cops to get there. There's a lot that can happen." His long hair frames his bleeding face, swollen lips and twisted nose gleaming like the setting sun. "Besides," she says, a teasing afterthought, "Mary Eunice would kill me if I let anything happen to you."

He chuckles, sad and weak. "Thank you," he croaks, voice thick and nasally with his own blood.

On her porch, Lana struggles to open the front door, fumbling with it with weak, sweaty hands before it opens. She staggers into the house, dragging Johnny behind her, where he can barely lift his feet. Mary Eunice stands from the couch, turning off the television. "Thank God, I was starting to worry—" She cuts herself off mid-sentence at the sight of the two of them. "Oh my word."

The last few feet between Lana and the couch seem insurmountable, but she manages, shoving Johnny onto it. She sways on her feet. Mary Eunice catches her from behind. "Lana! Lana, sit down—oh, my goodness, what happened?" Mary Eunice holds her, so instead of collapsing, she folds over on top of herself in the floor. "Johnny? What happened to you both?"

He lifts his head from the couch. "Tobias," he murmurs. Mary Eunice sits beside him on the couch, making a faint noise. "He jumped me on the way home from the library…" His eyes drowse. "Aunt Lana found me, when she realized I was gone, and—totally kicked their asses, it was so awesome, Mom." From the faint keening Mary Eunice produces, she doesn't share Johnny's definition of awesome. He leans against her.

Mary Eunice looks down at Lana in the floor, and she crawls to the edge of the couch and struggles to pull herself up. Mary Eunice meets her halfway and drags her up. "Lana?" she whispers. "Are you okay?"

"I'm almost fifty years old and I got drop-kicked by a teenage football player," Lana mutters, but she rests her head against Mary Eunice's. An arm wraps around her waist. "I've never been better." She plants her dry lips on the side of her face, a soft kiss. Mary Eunice kisses her, real and desperate and sad and frightened. "We're okay." Lana brushes her shaky hand along her lover's face. "We're okay. Nothing's broken. We just need to rest a bit, and then we'll wash up."

Johnny, likewise, reclines on his mother, breathing through his open mouth. "Mhm," he agrees. "We're okay, Mom."

Mary Eunice bows her head to kiss the top of his head, an arm around either person. "I love you both." She shakes with tears. Lana wants to kiss them away and squeeze her grief and helplessness right out of her, but she can barely lift her head. "I'm so sorry. I—I'm going to call the school on Monday. I'm going to talk to them. This can't happen again. If they won't do anything about it, I'll send you to a different school."

"Don't worry about it, Mom. Aunt Lana scared 'em good. Besides, Tobias jumps on anybody who can't outrun him."

"I'm your mom. It's my job to keep you safe." Mary Eunice's voice breaks. "I have to protect you."

Lana snuggles against her in spite of her own sweaty, overheated body. "Then make him join the track team. Nobody will run him down ever again. Right?" She's half-drunk on her own exhaustion as she says this, but to her surprise, Johnny sees the validity of the idea, and Mary Eunice cheers for him finally joining an extracurricular activity.

Johnny is the fastest kid on the track team without a shadow of a doubt. Lana drives him to his practices when Mary Eunice can't get out of work, but his mom makes it to every meet. They make banners bearing his name. They become the rowdiest parents in the bleachers. He wins state, and he does it again, and then he does it again his senior year, making a record of the student with the most state wins under his belt. At his last competition, Thomas and Julia pile into the bleachers as well, all screaming their support for Johnny McKee, number thirty-three, running five paces ahead of all of the other sprinters.

He wins an athletic scholarship and an academic scholarship to his first-choice college in Augusta. When he leaves, Mary Eunice turns off the air conditioning in the apartment and unplugs all of the appliances, emptying the fridge; she moves in with Lana. On the first night, they make love. Their fingers have memorized the maps of one another's bodies by now, but it's always something new for them, always a new sensation or a new level of adoration. "You should quit your job," Lana says, lazily drawing shapes on Mary Eunice's back.

She looks at Lana and chuckles. "Johnny's coming home for Christmas, you know. And for the summer. I'm still paying rent on my apartment." She eases her head on top of Lana's breast, tongue flicking across its bud with a teasing show of effort.

"You can get a part-time job and save up for that. He'll be ready to move out in two years at the most." Lana gazes down at her. "He'll be glad to see you quit it." Mary Eunice questions her with an arched brow. "Once," she says, "he came here crying because you were overworking yourself. Because you didn't feel like anything you did was good enough, and he didn't know how to help you." Mary Eunice's azure eyes soften into goo with affection for her son. "He'll be glad to know that place isn't abusing you anymore."

The next day, Mary Eunice walks away from her career for the second time in her life, this time leaving her job of eighteen years. That night, they crack open the champagne. "Somehow I keep leaving workplaces to take care of you," Mary Eunice teases over the bottle, winking to her girlfriend. "How do you explain that?" Lana wraps her arms around her from behind and kisses her neck. Mary Eunice giggles and whirls around. "I feel so free! I'm never going to have to see my horrible boss again! It's just us, now! We can talk about whatever we want—" She cuts herself off, and her eyes widen. "We can make love on every solid surface in this house, oh, Lana, the possibilities are endless!"

Lana bursts out laughing, but Mary Eunice pushes her against the counter. "Oof," she says as her butt strikes it. "You're serious?"

"I'm dead serious."

"Aren't you going to get bored of me eventually?"

"Never." Mary Eunice lunges for a kiss, which Lana grants with a grin. She nibbles on her lover's lower lip. "Mm, Lana…" She breaks the kiss. Her stomach rumbles aloud. A blush courses over her cheeks, faint and pink. "But maybe, after we eat?"

They make love on the couch, rather than in the kitchen, as they both agree it's easier. Afterward, Lana flicks on the television, and Mary Eunice lies on top of her, both of them watching a rerun of The Twilight Zone. "Am I supposed to feel bad?" Mary Eunice asks. "That Johnny is gone? Empty nest syndrome, or—whatever it is they call it?" Lana looks at her, a question in her eyes. "I miss him, of course! I miss his morning hugs. I miss hearing him and Sam talk on the phone before bed every night. I miss him waking up in a thunderstorm and getting in bed with me, because—because he hates the sound of thunder…" She drifts off, looking wistful. "But I'm not—I'm not destroyed, without him. I thought I would feel empty with him gone. I miss the sound of his voice, but at the same time, I'm—I'm so relieved that I made it this far. That he's a good man, and he doesn't know anything about himself."

Lana brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "You know," she says, "when he was born, I looked at him, and I thought, 'If anyone can crush all of the evil out of this little bastard, Mary Eunice can.'" Her eyes widen, appalled, but she doesn't interrupt. "You did it. You made him a good person. He's soft, and he's gentle, and he's kind, and he's smart. I could never have treated him with enough compassion to bring out all of those traits in him."

Mary Eunice's shocked look softens. "I never expected you to care about him at all," she admits. "It took me awhile, even—once the newness wore off, you know. First, I was like a kid who got a new babydoll, and I was happy with my new toy, but then I realized that the babydoll actually needed its diaper changed for real. It scared me to death, wondering—wondering what I had gotten myself into. If I could help him at all, if I could make him happy…" She quivers with a breath, the way Lana always knows she's about to cry. Lana laces her hands around her waist. "When he was eight months old, I had this horrible dream that he was a grownup, and I walked in on him—he was cutting you up into pieces. And he turned to me, and he just jumped at me, and I woke up in this cold sweat wondering if one of us would be his first victim, and it—it took me months to get over it. I moved him into the other bedroom and started locking my bedroom door, like he was going to get out of his crib and kill me."

Lana wipes the tears from her cheeks. "But then, when he was two, he caught a frog, and he—he was so little, he didn't know he was squeezing too hard, I wasn't watching him close enough. Until he started crying, because it was dead. And he just held it all close, like you hold a baby, and told it how sorry he was. I still remember how he said, 'I didn't mean to kill it, Mommy!'" She laughs, wry and sad. "And—I wasn't afraid anymore, after that. He was so upset he had hurt that frog. It just broke his heart. I knew, then, he had a bigger heart than I had ever imagined."

Lana curls her fingers in her girlfriend's hair, stroking it, combing through it. "I always thought you loved him at first sight. You always acted like it. Like you adored him. Like I had given you the gift you had always wanted."

Sad, round eyes land on her face. "Oh, Lana. I knew if I let you think anything else, you would never stop blaming yourself for giving him to me." Her pink lips form a smile, tender and loving; Lana doesn't think anyone has ever looked at her with such love in their eyes, and here she is, basking in Mary Eunice's sunlight, drinking in all of the nutrients she provides. "I never wanted children at all. Even when I was a girl, I wanted to be a nun, and when I lost that, I tried the next best thing. I didn't want to take him."

This stirs inside of Lana, some kind of unholy stew of pain and guilt and regret. "Then why did you do it? I told you you didn't have to—I told you I was putting him up for adoption—"

Mary Eunice caresses her cheek. "You wouldn't have been happy like that. You never would have stopped wondering where he was, what had happened to him, if he had gotten adopted or if he was just in foster care." Lana chokes at the thought, tears stinging her eyes. "You never would have stopped worrying about him finding out who he is and where he came from. If I took him—you said it yourself. I had the best chance of keeping everything from him, because I know the real story." She brushes the pad of her thumb over Lana's eyelids, kissing the single fallen tear from her cheek. "I took him because I loved you, Lana. Because I couldn't dream of a world where I didn't make your life as easy and painless as I possibly could. And you gave me my wonderful son, and I love him more than I ever loved God, and I won't regret any choice I made for as long as I live."

Lana's inconsolable tears fall from her cheeks, and Mary Eunice holds her so close, she only tastes the smell of her girlfriend's perfume and the heat of her naked skin. Mary Eunice teases her body with hands trailing over her breasts and slipping between her legs, not seeking sex but rather distracting her. "I never would have asked if I had known—" Mary Eunice kisses her. All of her love pushes deep into her mouth, fervent and honest. Lana shivers. What if she hadn't given Johnny to Mary Eunice? Where would they be now? Would they still be together? Tears slip from her eyes. Her legs tangle with her girlfriend's, and she bows her head in a melancholy resignation, bare arms locking around Mary Eunice's neck. "I've been with you longer than I was with Wendy," she whispers.

"Oh, Lana, I'm so sorry." Their bare breasts brush. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too." She buries her sorrows into the stomach of her beloved, sharing orgasm after orgasm, until they both doze into exhaustion.

…

"Hey, Mom?" Johnny asks. They're in their apartment, cleaning up the last of everything. Johnny has an apartment in August with Sam now; he's moving there permanently at the end of the summer. "We have things in the attic, right? It's been years, but I swore I saw you up there once. I can get anything down so you don't have to climb the ladder." He tugs on the string on the hatch door leading up into the attic so the door swings down. He catches the ladder and unfolds it all the way to the floor.

Mary Eunice spies him from where she's sorting through her collection of things from his childhood, all of the assignments she had saved—the first story he wrote, a drawing he had made in art class in the first grade labelled "me and mi mom," all of his report cards which professed him a straight A student even after the subjects were lost on her and her lackluster academic record. "Be careful, Johnny!" she calls without second thought. She has her nose buried in an essay he wrote when he was eleven about the Outsiders, fighting her way through every word with narrowed eyes.

Johnny climbs up into the dusty attic and reaches to tug on the light bulb, which clicks to life and casts the dark place in a dim, yellow light. A few boxes lay scattered around, lids tucked on securely, and a few plastic bags hold old clothes and toys. He tosses down the soft things first, knowing they won't break, and then he approaches the first of the boxes, lifting the lid to peek in at the sorts of things inside. Toy soldiers, horse figurines, collectibles, all things wrapped in newspaper meet his eyes; he unfolds a particular ceramic piggy bank, hand-painted. He grins at it in its many colors. He remembers when his mom splurged to buy them two of these piggy banks, blank with accompanying brushes and paints, and they spent the day each painting a piggy bank for the other. Flipping it over to look at the cork on the bottom, he reads where she wrote in black paint, "Love, Mom." She still has the one he painted for her in her bedroom—he's seen it when using the bathroom at Aunt Lana's house on her nightstand.

Wrapping the piggy bank back up in its newspaper, he hoists the box onto his shoulder and scales down the ladder, placing it beside the bags of toys. Then he climbs back up into the attic and, curious, peeks into another box to find more collectibles and things from his childhood. In the third box, he finds the same. Only when approaching the fourth box, labelled "Johnny" on the side, does he get a foreboding feeling, like his mother wouldn't really want him to look in this box. Oh, don't be silly, he thinks to himself. It has my name on it. He lifts the lid of the box.

Where the rest of the boxes had newspaper to protect the contents, this one doesn't. It's a large stack of documents with faded text. "Old taxes," he mutters, putting them aside and digging deeper into the box. Dragging it into the light, he shuffles through the papers to find a series of pictures snapped on an old Polaroid. The first is a baby—he assumes himself, because the back reads "Johnny McKee, born August 19, 1965" in his mother's elegant script. The next few pictures are the same, him, naked in some pictures, diapered in others, wrapped in blue blankets. One image only holds a hand blurring the lens, the background apparently hospital bed. A distorted face makes up the top corner, dark hair framing the woman's face. Johnny frowns. But Mom is blonde… Another picture shows him, smothered in blue blankets, held to a woman's chest, but the arms are tanner with fatter, more frequent freckles than his mother's.

Under the photographs, he finds more documents, all bearing his mother's familiar signature, though faded by the years of resting in this dark attic. "This document recognizes a formal recognition of legal guardianship for Mary Eunice McKee over the infant Johnny McKee on this day, August 22, 1965, until he comes of age," he reads aloud. "What the hell?" I'm not adopted! Mom told me all about my dad! Aunt Lana, too! He realizes Aunt Lana has never actually told him anything about his father—she never met him—but she's told him plenty of stories about when his mother was expecting him, and that's practically the same thing. A few more documents, as he flips through them, mark her as his legal guardian, adopted as a ward of the state, taken into her care.

At the very bottom of the box, a document stained yellow with age rests. The bold print at the top of the page reads, "Record of Live Birth. Commonwealth of Massachusetts." Johnny lifts it up to the light to make out the faded print. "Johnny McKee, born August 19, 1965, 7:17 AM. Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, Massachusetts, 02114. White, male, firstborn." None of this is news to him. But beneath it, under the title of mother, where his mother's name and information should be, he finds nothing of hers. His stomach sickens. "Lana Winters, born October 16, 1932. White female born in Georgia. Resides at 303 Ninut Lane."

Johnny rips his gaze from the birth certificate to the pictures again, first gazing at the arms holding him. Those arms, does he know those arms? Are those Lana's arms, still young and brown? He has never paid enough attention to her physique. But the other picture, with the hand in the lens, the distorted face in the corner, framed by dark hair. Brunette hair. Like mine. Johnny seizes the box and slams the lid on it, dropping it and scrambling down the ladder in a sprint for the bathroom. He collapses over the ceramic bowl and vomits. "Johnny?" The sound of his retching draws his mother's attention—she is still his mother, he doesn't have sufficient reason to doubt her yet—and she follows him into the bathroom. "Johnny! My word, are you okay?"

Her cool hands caress his face. His skin has heated up all over, and as she washes his face with a cold washcloth, he croaks, "Mom?" and hugs her tight. She's softer now than she has been ever before in her life, plump from the leisurely days spent at Lana's house. Lana. The thought of her name makes his stomach flip, and he gulps to keep from vomiting again as his mom strokes his long, dark hair. I don't look anything like her. He gazes up at Mary Eunice. Her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her fair porcelain skin with a faint dusting of freckles like someone spilled a salt shaker—none of those things match his body, his dark hair, his dark eyes, the fat freckles which cover him from head to toe just like the freckles on the arms of that woman in the picture, the woman who had given birth to him.

He pushes back from the hug. "What's the matter?" she asks. He scans her with his eyes in disbelief. "Johnny? Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm adopted."

Mary Eunice blinks as he blurts the words. No, no, no… Her heart flounders in her chest like a fish. He's nineteen. She's made it this far. She's raised him. He can't learn everything now! "You're not adopted, honey. Where would you get an idea like that?"

The nervous, hysterical pitch to her voice indicates her own disbelief. "Don't lie to me." Johnny withdraws, folding into himself. She reaches for him, but he retreats and shrugs her hands off of himself. "Mom, don't—don't lie to me, please, just tell me the truth—" He shivers with unshed tears, shoulders quaking, voice thick. "Don't tell me any more lies."

She gazes back at him. Her heart breaks. Lana, I'm so sorry. She swallows hard, closing her eyes, hoping for everything to disappear. Maybe she will wake up and he'll be five again, ready to play at the park after a long day at work. Maybe she'll blink and he'll be the toddler slipping in Lana's high heeled shoes. Maybe she'll turn around and hold a tiny baby again. Anything, anything, would hurt less than this. "What did you find?" she asks, not because she wants to hide things from him, but became she needs to know where to begin.

"Pictures—someone, not you, holding me, in a hospital bed—documents formalizing my adoption—" He cuts himself off, choking on his words. "Your name isn't on my birth certificate. Aunt Lana's is." She blinks, long and slow, at him. I could've told him he was adopted. I could've told him he wasn't mine. I can't tell him he's hers. She reaches for him again, hoping he will let her touch him, praying he will let her show him her love. You are mine, she wants to say. You have always been my son. But he pulls away. He hesitates, tears and snot streaking his face, before he whirls and around pushes past her. "I can't believe this." Johnny doesn't shout—he has never raised his voice at her, never learned such a coping mechanism, but the brokenness inside of him makes her wish he had screamed at her until her eardrums exploded. "I can't believe—you—" He doesn't stop in the hallway, making a beeline for the door.

Mary Eunice jogs to catch up with him. "Johnny! Johnny! Wait!" She catches him by the elbow. He tries to shake her off, but he won't use any strength, and she clings tight like a child to a favored teddy bear. "Wait!" she pleads. He's as tall as she is, now, slight from his athletics but wiry. He still allows her to drag him away from the door. "Where are you going? Why—" She blinks back tears. Don't cry, don't cry, you can't cry right now. "Johnny, please…"

He glares down at her, but he doesn't glare like Lana; he shares her eyes, the things she loves most about her girlfriend and her son, but he doesn't know how to give them the vitriol Lana can squeeze into a single gaze. "I need to talk to her! I need to know where I came from—I need to know who my father is—Why did she give me away? Why did she give me to you? Where is my dad?"

Oh, Johnny. Mary Eunice places both hands on his forearm, squeezing it. "Johnny," she whispers, slow and soft, hoping the sound of his name will help him realize the answers to the questions he has. Her eyes refuse to hold the tears any longer. They slide free without her consent. "Lana has known she was a lesbian since she was ten years old." His eyes don't hold the recognition she seeks, however horrible and volatile. Is it too late now? Is it too late to invent a man? Someone Lana loved, who left her? Mary Eunice has told too many lies to try to build another one now. "You already know who your father is." Her voice is a bare whisper, shaking. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. "You read about him."

His dark eyes, almost coal, glitter like gems in his face. She reaches up to wipe away his tears as they fall, cupping his handsome, tan face in both hands. "No," he says, a gruff denial. "That baby died, it was born dead, she told me so herself, I asked her, she said I could ask her and I did—" His words choke him. He seizes into a shudder. "I'm not, I can't be—"

"Sweetheart…" He wrenches away from her. "She lied. She lied to protect you, so no one would ever suspect what you are! She wanted you to have the best chance at a normal life, she knew people were watching her and knew you would never escape that shadow—" Mary Eunice stops reaching for him when he rips away again, tucking her arms around herself to keep herself from trying to hug him on reflex. He has never not wanted her to hug him before. "Johnny, I'm sorry."

"Were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to let me live like this? Not knowing who I am?"

She closes her eyes. "I know who you are, Johnny," she whispers. She wants to hold him. Part of her wishes a thunderstorm would rise up, would shake the apartment, so they could hide under the blankets and cuddle again like they did when he was small and so afraid of the thunder and lightning. "You're smart, and you're gentle—you're funny—" Her breath hitches. "You're kind, you're loving, you're—you have so much compassion, so much generosity, you're so soft, you give such good hugs, you tell me wonderful stories, you're never too busy to talk about my boring day—" She wants to continue listing his wonderful traits, but her ragged sobs rip from her chest, and she only manages to gasp a twisted, "You're my son," before she hides her face in her hands.

He doesn't hug her. His voice is as broken as she feels on the inside. "No. I'm not."

She hears his feet on the floor, headed for the door again, and she lunges, grabbing him. God, please, please, make him understand… "Johnny," she begs, "please don't go to her, you'll only scare her, you'll only hurt her. She never meant for you to know, please don't go to her, please—"

He shakes her off. She stumbles, dizzied by her own desperation, and catches herself on the wall. "You don't get to tell me what to do!" he snaps. "You're not my mother."

The apartment door slams shut behind him. "No, no, Johnny…" Mary Eunice crumples in the floor, landing on her knees. Her whole stomach and chest aches like from a heart attack, the worst pain she has ever felt, utter agony, and she twists a few times in the carpet, wondering if something is wrong inside of her, if the stress of losing him has ruptured her stomach or broken her heart. "Oh, Johnny." I need to get up. I need to call Lana. She can't bring herself to get up. Her stomach flips, sick, but it reminds her of how Johnny's anxiety makes him sick, too, how he got it from her, and she has to gulp to keep from vomiting right there in the floor. I need to warn Lana. She's going to be so upset. Hugging herself, she presses her face down, mashing it into the carpet. Her body aches and throbs.

She lies there in the floor, clutching herself, for an indefinite amount of time, until her tears have run dry and her head throbs enough for her to close her eyes, drifting off to a fitful sleep. Eventually, Lana will realize she hasn't come home and will come looking for her. Until then, she doesn't have the strength to move. And, like she expects, the sound of the door creaking open awakens her, though she doesn't move, afraid to greet her girlfriend and receive the blunt end of her tongue in return. A heavy body drops to its knees beside her. "Mom?"

Both eyes pop open. "Johnny?" Her voice cracks. "You came back…" She tries to sit up, but her head spins from lying in the floor for so long. He catches her around the middle and tucks a pillow under her head, tugging up a blanket over her body. "Johnny, I'm so sorry." She blinks a few more tears from her eyes. "I never meant to hurt you, I never…" She shivers.

He puts an arm around her waist and pulls them close. "I'm sorry, Mom. I shouldn't have left like that." She gazes into his warm brown eyes, cast in late evening light filtering through the window. "I shouldn't have said any of that. I didn't mean it, I swear, I'm sorry."

She touches his face. It has a stubbly surface now, not soft like it was when he was a child. "I'm not upset, sweetheart." He smiles, weak and watery. "Nothing scares me more than the idea of losing you. You're all I've got, you and Lana…" She shakes her head, pain quivering inside of her. "Is she okay? Did she throw you out? Is she mad?"

"No, no, I—I didn't say anything. About that. I just…" He sighs. Mary Eunice studies the planes of his face. How many times did he run to Lana's house as a child? How many times did he seek shelter with her? Call her for the homework which rendered his mother stupid and helpless? "I sat in my car, looking in her window, thinking, trying to figure out what I wanted to say—because first I wanted to be mean, but I couldn't do that, and I know it always freaks her out if I go in crying, but I couldn't stop…" He wipes his eyes. "She came outside and asked me if I was going to cook in my car all afternoon or if I was going to come inside. I guess she'd been watching me for awhile from the window, because she already had the pizza ordered."

This makes Mary Eunice chuckle, sad and wry; she can't smell the garlic on his breath for her clogged nose, but she knows Lana always buys Johnny a pizza when he's sad, the way a grandmother might bake cookies and brew tea. "The kind you like? Pepperoni?"

Johnny nods. "Mhm. She asked me what I was upset about, and I told her we had a fight, and you were still here. She wanted to know if you were okay, and I said I thought so. And that was it, really—we ate, and she gave me something to read, and then I said I wanted to spend the night here with you, so she gave me these blankets. Our last night here, at home." Mary Eunice grins, but she doesn't stop wiping her nose. Johnny pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at her nostrils for her. "Do you remember when I was little, and Thomas told me if I blew my nose, all of my brains would fall out my nose, and I was afraid to blow my nose for years?"

Her sad chuckle blooms into a genuine laugh. "How could I forget? I had to chase you and pin you down to get that booger buster up your nose and suck all the snot out."

He lies down beside her, resting his head on the pillow, their faces inches apart; his breath wafts across her face. "Will you tell me everything now?" he asks. "Why did you take me? Why…" A shadow of confusion crosses his face. "Everything I know is a lie, and I've known you for nineteen years, and I don't know anything about you. Nothing that's true, anyway."

"Oh, Johnny." Has she deprived him of something by lying to him? Has she deprived him of her own truth? "It's a long story," she says, first, a warning. "I'll tell you if you want to hear, but I don't want you to be bored."

"I'm never bored, Mom. I love long stories. True stories."

With this in mind and in her heart, Mary Eunice tells him everything, the truth, as much as she knows it. "I didn't meet your Aunt Lana in high school," she says. "But everything else I told you about me, then, that was true. I didn't do well in school, and I dropped out when I was sixteen. I ran away from my aunt's house. I didn't—I didn't have any friends, though. I didn't go to work. I went to the abbey. I told them I was ready to serve, and I joined them."

"You were a nun?" She nods. "Like… A real nun? For real?"

A grin breaks her face. "What's so unbelievable about that? Nuns are people under the habit, you know. They're not just walking robots dressed in black snapping rulers and blabbering Bible verses."

He rolls over, gazing up at the ceiling, shaking with laughter. "I don't know, I just can't imagine you—I don't know, being mean to anyone, or being that excited about Jesus, or—maybe I just assumed lesbians and nuns were totally opposite creatures!" She swats him playfully on the chest, and he catches her hand and pushes it away. "What happened, then? Why did you leave?"

"After I took my preliminary vows—the vows of a novitiate, I was seventeen by then—the Mother Superior, Mother Claudia, heard of a need for more Sisters in the Briarcliff sanitarium. Owned and operated by the church. The turnover for volunteer Sisters was astronomical, so she sought out nuns who had taken solemn vows, who would have no choice but to stay or walk away from the abbey completely. So I went there, and I worked there for eleven years."

"That was where you met Aunt Lana?" he asks.

She nods. "She went there looking to meet with Kit after he was arrested, suspected of being Bloody Face, because Alma had gone missing. Everyone agreed, then, that he was the one killing all of those women, and all of the journalists wanted in on it. Lana was the smartest of them, though. She was the only one who got in."

"But she got caught."

"Yes. Sister Jude, the head nun, found her and imprisoned her. And it was cruel fate that Dr. Thredson—Bloody Face—he heard about Kit Walker's arrest, and he volunteered to serve as the court appointed psychiatrist, to make sure he was framed."

Johnny's delicate brown eyes sadden. "My father."

Mary Eunice nods again, biting her lower lip. "We were so understaffed at Briarcliff," she remembers, "it was—oh, it was four or five days before I did a patient count and realized she was missing. That night, the police returned her to us, after the car accident. Sister Jude didn't listen to anything she said—Kit was the only one who knew anything, and no one would believe him. They wound up taking things into their own hands. They tied him up and tortured him until he confessed, and they recorded it, so when Mother Claudia came to visit, she freed Lana and let her take the confession to the police."

"But she killed him."

"Yes. She killed him."

"What happened to you?"

Mary Eunice blinks. She had forgotten she was telling Johnny about herself, but his reminder brings her back to earth. "When it surfaced, that Sister Jude had made us ignore the pleas of a woman who was telling the truth—that we were holding an innocent man as a criminal and had a murderer cozying up in the staff room with us—that the Monsignor was overlooking the inhumane treatments inside Briarcliff to avoid scrutiny so he would have a better chance at becoming Cardinal… I left. Mother Claudia offered to reappoint me to a different facility, but… I don't know. I couldn't stand the thought of letting Lana go without an apology, at least. I loved her even then, I think, but I didn't know it, yet." She remembers how she burned, feeling naked, when she stripped off the habit she had sewn and returned it to Mother Claudia with an apology, shaking her head and saying, No more. Not from me. "I stayed a few nights in a homeless shelter before I found a telephone directory and walked to her house."

"And she just let you in? After all that?"

His incredulity doesn't surprise her. "No! No, not at all—She actually slammed the door in my face, the first time I knocked." She had felt the same incredulity, those years ago, when she stood there, staring at a blank door, wondering if she had made some kind of horrible mistake by ever leaving the church. Johnny squeezes her tighter around the waist at the harsh words. "But I think I caught her interest. She's a journalist, it's her job to be nosy, and—well, it's not every day a former nun shows up on your doorstep with no shoes or habit, hair all tangled, not having showered in the better part of a week." He snorts; it's not a real laugh, but it's light and frothy, a pleasant piece to take his mind off of the rest of the dark story. "I was just standing there, staring at her door, wondering if my whole life was a mistake—wondering if there was anything I could do to help her. She looked like death itself. You know, she's never been a good cook, and she was so thin and gray, her hair was falling out. Once, she told me she only let me in because I looked like somebody had dumped a malnourished, flea-eaten dog on her porch, so I guess the misery was mutual."

"But she came back. She did let you in."

"Yeah. She did. I was just—well, I had just decided to walk off of her porch, before she called the police on me for trespassing, and I walked out to the street and stuck my thumb out to catch a ride, and she came back to the door and she said, 'Don't be an idiot. Get your ass in here. What the hell is your problem?'" Mary Eunice snickers. Maybe she shouldn't find it funny, but she does, thinking of how Lana had confronted her and how she had received it. "I told her I just wanted to apologize, and I would do anything I could to help her. I think she thought I was bluffing, but she told me I could sleep on her couch until I had a place to stay. I got that job at the hospital, and I started taking care of her. Cooking for her. Keeping her house clean. She had horrible nightmares—she still does, now, but then, they were almost every night—so I started sleeping with her."

Johnny's eyelids are growing heavy, and he curls up on the pillows, gazing up at her but not contributing anything, his hands all caught in the blankets, tucked around his chin like a child folded tight into bed. "She had tried to use a coat hanger, at Briarcliff, to end her pregnancy, but it didn't work. And she found this back alley person—it was illegal, then—but she couldn't go through with it. Being like that, on her back, naked, it just…" Mary Eunice sighs. "I found her when I got off of work that night, holding onto her picture from Wendy and just crying. She felt so trapped. She thought nothing she could do would be the right thing—for her or for you.

"It took a week or two before she decided to start poking around adoption organizations. She didn't like any of them. They all had privacy contracts, but they kept records, and those were records she didn't want to risk you finding when you grew up. Once, she asked if I knew how to deliver a baby by myself—she thought maybe she could leave you on a church doorstep, and no one would ever have a chance of knowing where you came from. She was terrified."

"I always thought Aunt Lana was fearless," Johnny whispers.

Mary Eunice smooths a hand over his dark hair, tangling her fingers in it. "I've never seen her as scared as she was, then. Afraid something horrible would happen to you if she didn't put you in the right hands, afraid someone would track you back to her if she did." He looks at her with adoration, like a puppy worshiping its owner with its very gaze. She knows his eyes like she knows the back of her own hands, the precise flecks in their depths, the way the pupil expands in the dark and becomes indiscernible from the iris. "She finally gave up and went back to an adoption organization. She reviewed their policies again and asked about how they protect their records, and they told her that, if you grew up and decided you wanted to contact her, they would reach out to her and give her the option to decline. They told her that was the best she was going to get from any agency. So she came home that night, and she told me she'd decided to do it, even though it wasn't what she wanted."

"Did you ask to take me, then?"

She smiles. "No, sweetheart. I didn't ask at all. She asked me, the next day." She rubs his cheek, studying his face. This might be the last time we ever do this. This might be the last time we ever sleep together. It hurts to think. Her little boy has grown up. "She said she'd thought about it, and she would feel better if she knew where you were. She felt better leaving you with someone she knew would take care of you, someone who would never try to track down where you came from or tell you about being adopted. She asked me if I would adopt you and raise you as my own. And—well, you love Sam. You know it makes you a little silly."

"Love has never made me adopt Sam's baby." Johnny arches an eyebrow at her, a smile hidden in the crinkles around his eyes.

Mary Eunice laughs. "Well, if he ever asks, you'll know how I felt." The cold air permeates the heavy blanket, and she draws nearer to him. Her nose has begun to clear, and she can smell his cologne now; he wears the brand she bought for his last birthday. "I just smiled and told her you were mine if she would give you to me. That was when she kissed me for the first time."

"You're whipped," Johnny accuses, but he laughs as he says it, hugging her tight. "You got me because you're whipped! That's it!" He tickles her, and she shrieks with laughter, reaching to tickle him in return. "Whipped! Whipped!" She swats his hands away and pins him down, poking at his belly through his thin shirt.

In her mind, a thousand things flash before her eyes, a million ways they've done this. She sits on this floor with a tiny newborn blowing bubbles, changing his diaper; she blows raspberries on the belly of a laughing toddler whose legs flounder while he shrieks, "Don't stop, Mommy, don't stop!"; she wrestles with a growing boy, letting him pin her down and announce, "Ha, Mom, I beat you!"; she sprawls out beside a pre-teen on the rug to help him with his homework, acting as a cheerleader when she has reached the end of her education's usefulness; she sits on this floor and listens to him with rapt attention give his final speech for English class, trying to suss out the definitions of unfamiliar words without interrupting him. As she writhes now, escaping his playful hands, tears rise to her eyes—not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy, tears of wonder at the marvelous person she created.

He stills in the blanket, both of them tangled up together and wheezing with laughter. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too, Johnny. More than anything else in the whole world." He curls up like a little boy again, resting his cheek on her chest. "Don't you ever doubt it. You're my son. I was there when you took your first breath. I changed your first diaper. I gave you your first bottle, I saw your first smile, I hear your first word." His breath hitches, and he clutches her close, making a thin whimpering noise in his throat. "I knew you were mine from the moment I held you in my arms. I'll love you with my whole life, as long as I live. I promise you that." She kisses his forehead. A few more tears roll down his cheeks, but he smiles, and she wipes them away, waiting for the lull of sleep to carry them away.

"They were really good stories, Mom," he whispers when she thinks he has fallen asleep. "About my dad. You told me really good stories. Thank you."

A few days after he leaves, moving away to Augusta for what seems like forever, Mary Eunice breaks in Lana's arms. "I'm going to miss him so much!" she wails. "I shouldn't have let him leave!"

"Honey, he's nineteen years old." Lana fights to keep from laughing at her, holding her tight, kissing the top of her head and rocking her in spite of the amusement she finds in this distraught caricature of her lover. "You couldn't keep him from leaving." Mary Eunice sobs, completely inconsolable, into Lana's chest. "Mary Eunice… Is this just delayed empty nest syndrome? You weren't like this when he went to college."

"He was coming back from college, now he's never coming back, I'm never going to see him again—"

"Augusta is two and a half hours from here. We can go every weekend if you want."

"It's not the same! You don't get it, you don't have kids!"

"Thank god for that."

"Why do you think it's so funny? He left! He's gone!"

Lana wraps her up in the couch throw and brushes the tears from her cheeks with her fingers. "I don't think it's funny, sunshine, not at all." Mary Eunice pouts up at her with swollen lips like a toddler. "I'm so glad that you love him. Johnny is a good kid. He'll be back here visiting more often than you like to think." Lana kisses the tip of her nose. "Is this what the fight was about? That you didn't want him to leave? You two never fought before."

Mary Eunice shakes her head. "No… Well, kind of, I guess." I should tell her the truth. She doesn't. Johnny said he won't confront Lana, and she has no reason not to trust him at his word. Lana is happier this way. "I said something kind of dumb about not making a mistake with a first love, if he was still confused about Sam, and it hurt his feelings, and the more I tried to explain myself, the deeper of a hole I dug for myself. But… Yeah, I only said it because I didn't want him to leave, and I didn't want to admit it."

A kiss to her lips eases the hard lump of nerves in her belly. "Kids leave. That's natural."

"I know. But I miss him. I miss him so much." Mary Eunice frames Lana's face with her hands, the dark brown hair dangling around her. "I wish I could wave a magic wand and make him a little baby again. Just for a day or two. I want to take care of a baby again."

Lana chuckles, looming over her. "Maybe I should distract you, then." Her fingers trail up Mary Eunice's thigh, slipping under the fabric of her skirt, and within a few minutes, she forgets she even has a son.

…

Two years later, Johnny and Sam make a surprise visit to their house. Mary Eunice answers the door while Lana works in her office, writing another episode of her show, which has built an international audience for its empathetic political commentary. "Johnny! You're home!" She jumps at him and almost knocks him down. "I missed you so much! Lana! Johnny's home!"

He catches her and spins her around. "Yeah, Mom," he laughs, "it's not like you just saw me two weeks ago! Or talked on the phone to me last night, as a matter of fact." He hugs her tight and kisses her cheek, and she kisses his back before she falls back. "Hey, Aunt Lana." Lana goes for her obligatory hug, but Johnny doesn't linger in her arms or cling to her.

"Hey, kid. Hey, Sam." He waves at the two of them with a small smile, and they usher him inside. "I'll go order a pizza." It's Lana's automatic response by now to order a pizza whenever something unexpected or troubling happens, and no one argues with her. They all arrange themselves in the living room, spreading out on the furniture, television turned off, and share the happenings of the previous two weeks; even nightly phone calls, costing a fortune (though Lana never expresses irritation toward her girlfriend—she knows she doesn't understand, really, what it's like to be a parent, and she'll spend any amount of money to show her gratitude), can't keep them close enough.

"What brings you both to town?" Mary Eunice asks as Lana sits beside her.

Johnny shrugs. "Thomas and Julia are going through Uncle Kit's estate, finally. Sorting through things. They wanted to know if I wanted anything, so I thought I'd come to town. It's always nice to be home." Sam's hand rests on his knee until Johnny takes it in his own. They don't have to wear a mask around Mary Eunice and Lana; they can express themselves, can share themselves, and that's special for all of them. "We're thinking we might move back to the city next year, after we graduate," Johnny admits. "Or at least the suburbs around here. Somewhere closer. In the state."

"So the attachment disorder is mutual," Lana says, and Mary Eunice swats her on the leg with a pink blush spreading across her cheeks. "So, Sam, what's it like coming from a family that doesn't still want to drive you to school every day?" She winks teasingly at Mary Eunice.

"Oh." Sam stares down at his feet, shrugging. "I haven't been home in awhile. My parents are ready for me to bring home a girlfriend. My mom gave me my grandma's wedding band and everything. I'm still trying to figure out how to tell them my wife's name is Johnny."

Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry."

Johnny looks at her. "What did you do? For your parents?"

"My parents caught me in bed with Wendy when we were nineteen. We ran back to college and never looked back." The pizza comes to the door, and Lana gets up to fetch it, paying the driver with a generous tip before she brings it back to the living room for all of them. "Eat up, kids."

They all devour the pizza, Mary Eunice digging in without any thought, but as she bites into the loaded specialty pizza, Johnny asks her, "Mom? I thought you didn't like any toppings on your pizza?"

She peeks over the fat crust. "That's the only lie I've ever told you."

Lana's heart skips a beat, half-expecting him to question the joke Mary Eunice just told, but Johnny laughs. "Alright, then." He picks all of his toppings off except the pepperoni and sprinkles them on top of her piece of pizza, making her eyes glow with delight. "You can have 'em on my other piece, too. I don't like the gross crunchy stuff."

Sam chuckles. "The gross crunchy stuff? You mean the vegetables? No wonder you're so small. Won't even eat a pepper if it's on a pizza." He tells Mary Eunice, "Spaghetti is all he ever eats. Was he always like that?"

She shrugs. "Probably not, before I got too tired to ever do anything but boil pasta."

"Oh, Mom, you're too hard on yourself!" Johnny stops plucking the sausage off of his pizza and putting it on hers to reassure her. "You were practically a slave laborer at that hospital. Once you dozed off over the stove and I had to keep you from lightning your own hair on fire. Besides, I'm an athlete. We need carbs."

The night passes in peace and quiet for them, and the next day, Lana spends her hours on hold with her director on the phone while still writing the script for her next episode. Mary Eunice tells her she's running to the store, and she leaves the house in silence except for the scribbling of Lana's pen on the paper and her fingers on the typewriter, squinting at the fine print behind her reading glasses, which have a crack in the lens. She hasn't bothered to replace them because she likes the frames, which aren't in production anymore. Mary Eunice says it makes her old-fashioned. She doesn't mind.

A sharp pounding at the door startles her out of her skin. She starts up from the her desk with a gasp of surprise, whirling around to look out the window at the porch where Johnny rocks impatiently on her welcome mat, a round black package in his hand, what looks like a stereo in the other. Eyes narrow, she rips off her reading glasses and heads to the front door; she has never seen him so agitated before, hopping from one foot to the other, face flushed and shirt flapping in the wind. "Johnny?' she asks, answering the door. "What the hell are you doing here?" He barges past her into the house. Her heart skips a beat, and she sets her jaw. "Excuse me! What's going on?"

"Is Mom home?"

She hesitates. "She'll be here in a few minutes," she says. It may be a lie; she knows Mary Eunice tends to wander in the aisles of the grocery store, feeling freer now with her money than ever before, like she can buy a luxury item without the power going out or an eviction notion being left on her front door. But part of a hard no makes her worry Johnny has different intentions entirely; unlike Mary Eunice, she has never shaken the secret, tiny, deep fear of finding him one day with blood on his hands and a mask on his face. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Johnny places the stereo on the coffee table. "This will tell you." He unwraps a tape and slams it down into the box—a tape recorder, she realizes, not a stereo, not a radio at all.

An old tape recorder, at that. "What?" she says, but her voice comes in a bare whisper. "Are you writing music now? Is it too vulgar for your mom to hear?" She crosses her arms, but her attempt to stand up tall leaves her spine feeling weak. Before it plays, she tries one more time to distract him. "You could afford a better device. That looks like it came out in the 1950's." His eyes are dark, and he doesn't look directly at her.

The tape whistles with crackling air before she hears her own voice. "You'd like to kill me right now, wouldn't you, Oliver?" She and Johnny both stiffen like electricity courses through them. "This might change your mind." Her previous self, the self from twenty years ago, unwraps the paper holding her fate in its print, the paper which tells her she's pregnant—which tells Oliver she's pregnant.

The sound of his voice makes her want to cover her ears. She resists the urge. "What's this?" Two words, only two words, but they echo. She knows she will hear them in her dreams for weeks, again. Goosebumps pop up all over her back.

"The ultimate cosmic joke. You got me pregnant." She folds the paper back up, paper crinkling, and then the fabric of her dress rustles as she tucks it into her pocket. Lana rocks onto heels. She wants to turn off the tape. She wants to kick the tape recorder across the room. She wants to throw Johnny out of her house. She does none of those things. For twenty years of lies, she can give him five minutes of her time.

Oliver puffs with something like happiness. He didn't have emotions. He never felt happiness. "I'm gonna be a father." None of the faux joy in his voice could ever touch the love which Mary Eunice feels for her son. None of it could parallel the enthusiasm with which she hugs him nor the tears she weeps when she studies his childhood pictures, even the ones where she squeezed an uncomfortable Lana and a grinning toddler into the same frame.

"No, Oliver, you're not going to be a father. Not this time."

He sounds like a child. "What do you mean?" Thirst and hunger had exhausted him when they attacked with their ambush. "Oh, no, no, no. Lana…" The sound of her name on his lips is volatile. It makes her want to change her name, just as it did twenty years ago, and the thought of hearing Mary Eunice call her by that same name makes her belly flip. It was easier when he called her Mommy—Mary Eunice would never call her that. "Please, please, please, don't give him away! I know what it's like to be raised in the system! It ruins—"

"Oliver, stop." A faint tinkering of metal clicks together, a wire coat hanger, a rusty thing she found in one of the old closets and unspooled. As the recording plays, she knows her former self has already penetrated herself with the vile instrument and failed to kill the stubborn bastard inside of her womb, though her former self doesn't yet know of her own failure. She's high on the sense of success. The monster is tied and bound, the abomination he left inside of her is gone, and she has one mission—to preserve Kit Walker's innocence. "This monster you planted inside of me?" Johnny recoils at the word monster. Tears roll down his cheeks. Lana's eyes remain dry. She won't give that monster—not Johnny, but the real monster, the monster in the tape—the satisfaction of making her weep again from the grave. "I'm getting rid of it. And since I'm stuck in here, I'm gonna have to get creative."

Fabric hits the ground, her panties; she's stripping down in front of him without a care. He's already seen her body, after all, against her will, and this time, she allows it to save Kit. "No, no, Lana, no, please…" His voice cracks.

The pleas of the bound murderer have no effect on her. "This is a mercy killing, Oliver. No baby should have to grow up knowing Daddy is Bloody Face."

"No! No, he doesn't have to know." He assumes the baby is male; Lana knows, if she had carried a female infant, and if Bloody Face had lived to see his progeny, he would not have valued a daughter. He would have treated her the same way he treated all women in his life. Perhaps he would have killed her, even. "Kit Walker is going to take the fall for all of those crimes. I promise you, it'll all work out!"

Her former self cannot stifle the incredulity, and she cannot stifle it, now. "Is that how you see it?" In another universe, the cards fall just as he intends them, and she gives birth to a healthy baby boy, and the courts rule she must share custody of her son with the man no one believes raped her—she knows such things have happened, still happen today, and she has no doubt the streak of bad luck she faced while in Briarcliff would stretch onward.

He keeps saying her name, and each time, the hair on the back of her neck stands up a little taller. "Lana, you know me!" Yes, she knows him. She knows him in a way no other living person knows him; she knows him in the way Wendy's cold corpse also knew him. "I can change! I have great determination! And now I have reason!"

She scoffs. "Really? You gonna be a real stand-up guy, now?"

He sounds so convincing. Lana looks at Johnny's face, trying to gauge if he trusts the word of his long-dead father or not, but Johnny has hidden all of his emotions in a dark shadow, sucking his lower lip, tears still falling down his flushed face. She shuffles a little nearer to him, hoping to read his eyes. The stench of vomit clings to him. Like his mother, he vomits when he's nervous or upset; the smell only tells her the discovery flummoxed him enough to send his face into a toilet bowl. "Yes! You owe me this!" I don't owe you anything! she wants to say. I don't owe you jack shit! She didn't say those things, at the time, because she had a purpose—she needed the confession to save Kit. Now, though, they race through her mind, and she bites her tongue to keep from speaking them aloud. "It's my child, too, please!"

"You're a sociopath. You can't be honest with anybody."

"I can, I can be honest, I can, please, help me!"

"Okay. Donna Burton." The man makes a pained groan at the sound of the victim's name. "Why did you choose her?"

"I saw her at the library a couple nights."

"What did you like about her?"

"Her skin. It was fuzzy like a peach, and I wanted to feel it."

Johnny hiccups and places a hand over his mouth, another gagging sound building in his throat, but he doesn't make a beeline for the bathroom or the kitchen; he trusts himself to hold his stomach, or to have emptied it enough not to make a mess in her living room. "So you skinned her alive?"

"Yes."

"And Alison Reidel?"

"She was a secretary at my dentist's office. I always liked her." Lana scowls at the sound of his voice, the recounting of his crimes, so free of guilt and remorse. He tells the truth because he knows it benefits him, but even that cannot give him emotions. "I put her to sleep first, but she kept talking to me. I was so confused."

A thin, pained keening, a sound of pure agony, rips from Johnny's throat. Both hands muffle his mouth now, but they can't hold in the grieving cry, sorrow and anguish. "What about Wendy?" the tape recorder asks. Lana steps forward and turns it off. "I get the point," she says. She knows how the conversation ends. She needs no more reminders or doubts about Wendy to follow her now. Studying him, part of her heart breaks, some part buried deep inside, or perhaps an old wound ripping open anew with salt pouring into it. "Why do you care?"

That tape didn't give him an epiphany. He didn't seek it out for no reason. He knew. Johnny shudders like the temperature in the room has dropped, though she feels no colder except for the ice spreading in her heart. "You were talking about me." She lifts her chin in arrogance. She won't apologize. Maybe I should. Maybe I should apologize. "You were talking about me, and you didn't even know me—you were using me to get to him—"

"When did you find out? Did your mother tell you? Or does she even know you know?"

He crumples into the floor, folding himself up into a tiny ball of distress. If Mary Eunice saw him now, she would hug him, but Lana cannot bring herself to lay a hand on him, not after hearing his father's voice again. She doesn't often see Bloody Face in Johnny—Johnny is all things gangly and long and lean, even as an adult, handsome in a narrow, willowy sense, with crooked teeth Mary Eunice never allowed her to purchase braces for and a nose which has leaned to the side ever since she saved him from the bullies before the tenth grade. Bloody Face had smooth, tan skin, with thick, luxurious black hair and eyes smoldering like coals, a body chiseled as if from marble, face sculpted by the gods and eyebrows like black marks from a sharpie. Johnny isn't crafted by any god; he's made of blood and soil and his mother's hard labor and Lana's own genes giving him the brown hue to his eyes and the spotty freckles all over his skin. "I found my birth certificate two years ago," he finally manages to mutter. "When I was moving out of Mom's house. That's what our fight was about. She begged me not to tell you, so I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her—" He chokes. "Why did you say that?"

Lana blinks, long and thoughtful. Mary Eunice's betrayal stings, though she wonders if it counts as a betrayal at all; she knows Mary Eunice did it to protect her, and that if Johnny hadn't found this tape, it probably would've worked. "Because I needed him to talk. We were recording him to clear Kit's name. He wouldn't have said anything incriminating if I hadn't given him some bait."

"Bait?" Johnny repeats in an incredulous voice. "Bait? Bait is a worm on a hook, or a dummy, not a—not a human being, not a baby—"

"Oliver Thredson was no catfish." Lana almost says your father, but she restrains herself. Bloody Face may have given Johnny half of his genes, but he has no bearing on his life. Johnny McKee has no father. He has a single, loving mother who has doted on him since the day he was born. Lana will not disrespect her to put them on the same terms. "I already thought I had successfully terminated my pregnancy. I thought we were free from him, once we got that tape. I wouldn't know until after the Mother Superior freed me that you were tougher than a coat hanger."

He coughs into his hands, muffling his mouth, hiding the lower half of his face, his eyebrows knitted together with a permanent wrinkle between his eyes. "Is that supposed to be some consolation? That you thought you had already killed me, and you were just trying to trick him with some story about me?"

She shakes her head, crossing her arms. Where he sits in the floor, he looks so small, so puny, so much like his mother, all hunched over and hugging himself for the pain. "It isn't consolation. It's the truth." She clears her throat. Each word hurts him, and in turn will hurt Mary Eunice when she comes home from the grocery store—Lana expects her bad luck to continue spinning so her girlfriend will enter at any time to see her weeping, distraught son in the living room floor, inconsolable, with his godmother doing nothing to ease his pain. "I know your mother raised you to believe your whole existence has been nothing but rainbows and sunshine, mostly because that's what any child deserves and partly because I asked her to. But that's not the truth."

"You hated me! By sheer virtue of what I was—" Johnny sobs. "I was just a baby," he whispers, "not even that, yet."

A tear still hasn't risen to her eyes. "Your grandfather died fighting Nazis," she says instead. "Your mother has never protested the bombing of Dresden—the bombs in Japan, either, for that matter. She hates them for the dumb luck of being allied with the people who murdered her father. The civilians, too, they were there. They were just collateral damage. Do you blame her for never shedding a tear?" Hate is a strong word to apply to Mary Eunice, but it holds firm, nonetheless; she refuses to discuss the second world war, buries her head in the sand at the mere mention of it, weeps on every anniversary of Pearl Harbor and celebrates every Memorial Day. "The war robbed her of her parents. Thredson robbed me." She doesn't say the things she lost to him, because she isn't sure she can list them all—she lost Wendy, but she also lost her peace of mind and a full night's sleep and an ability to walk outside without looking over her shoulder. "You were a civilian. You were collateral damage. And I know it doesn't feel very good to know that, but it's the truth."

Johnny weeps. He says nothing more to her. Eventually, she walks away, into the kitchen, and gets him a bottle of water and a cold wet washcloth to clean up his crumpled, red face; he has indicated no intention of ceasing this tirade of grief, but she wants it to end by the time Mary Eunice comes home, giving her less and less time with each passing second. "Wipe your face," she says in a low, soft voice. "Your mother will be home soon. You don't want her to see you like this."

To her surprise, he murmurs his thanks. He blows his nose and wipes his face, still shivering like a leaf in the breeze on her floor beside the coffee table, where the tape recorder rests. He rests his cheek on the cool wood of the coffee table. "Did he really love me?" he asks in a croak. "Did he really want me?"

"I'm sure he wanted you," Lana says, because she's quite on a roll of telling the truth right now, "but he wasn't capable of loving anyone. He liked to feel in control. No one has such complete control over another person as a parent over a child. A father over a son." She speaks with ease because of the many nights she has spent in her life, playing over the conversations she had with the man who tormented her. She has broken him down to a science in her head. It doesn't banish him from her nightmares.

Johnny stares down at the shag carpet, digging his fingers and toes into it and releasing them, a nervous tic. "It would have given him control over you," he says in a whisper. "I would have. If things had worked the way he wanted."

"Yes. It would have." She opens up the top of the tape recorder. "How much did you pay for this?"

"Thomas had the whole thing in a batch going to a crime museum in Los Angeles. I gave him forty bucks for it."

"You just had forty bucks laying around to buy an obsolete tape recorder and a tape?"

He shrugs. "Not right now, no, but I will in a few weeks." He wipes his nose. "I got a few interviews with Roberto Canessa. That guy who ate people in the Andes Mountains when the plane crashed in the seventies. The publisher is printing my book and working on marketing now in Augusta. I just—I was waiting until I had a material book before I told Mom. I wanted to surprise her. Please don't say anything."

"I won't." Lana sits back on the couch, grinding her jaw, teeth shifting over one another like grain through a silo. She crosses her legs and stares down at him in front of the television, like he blocks the screen from her view.

Lifting his gaze from his lap, Johnny meets her eyes. "Did you think I would be like him?" he asks in a bare whisper. "Did you think… I would want to hurt people? Like him?"

"I was afraid of that," Lana says. "I was afraid of a lot of things." She had counted all of the possibilities and listed them in a notebook on a piece of paper, not titled but otherwise complete, all of the things that could happen to her baby. She remembers going down the list with Mary Eunice and reviewing each of the options, letting Mary Eunice give her the best possible scenario and dispel her fears. "I was afraid I would give you up, and it wouldn't make a difference. Like he said." She nods to the tape recorder where it sits on the coffee table in front of her. "The system ruins lives."

"Why did you ask her to take me?"

"I loved her." Her foot bounces in the air, the only indication of her eagerness to end the conversation. "I was selfish, even if I didn't realize it. Some part of me knew she loved me enough to say yes, no matter her circumstances." She blinks from where she stares just above his head at the wall behind him and focuses on his face. "And I knew what it felt like to be loved by her. I knew how she made me feel, after living with me for six months. How she made me feel safe, and warm, and loved, when nothing else could touch my pain. I knew she would give that to you absolutely and wholeheartedly, and I knew you could be nothing short of pure if you grew up feeling that way. It was about her all along."

To her surprise, Johnny smiles. "She said the same thing about you. Why she said yes."

Lana inclines her eyebrows. This shocks her a little, but she doesn't betray it. "Do you hate me?" she asks him. "For what I said? Or for any moment after?"

"No." Johnny shakes his head. "No, I… I can't hate you." He averts his eyes, hidden behind his big glasses, the first pair of frames he purchased for himself instead of Lana buying for him. "I don't. You're right. Mom is—Mom is more than any kid deserves. I was never hungry. I always had a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. Mom made my life wonderful."

"I can say the same thing about her." Johnny scrambles to get up out of the floor and heads to the kitchen. "Hungry?" she calls after him. He returns with her wooden broom with broken bristles, holding it by the sweeping head. "What the hell are you going to do with that?"

He wields the handle of the broom over the tape recorder on the coffee table. "I don't want anyone to make you or Mom listen to this tape ever again." She stands up from the couch to give him free range of motion, and as she steps out of the way, he snaps the broom handle down on the tape recorder. The top of it shatters. He beats the machine a few more times, and then he takes the tape from it and busts it open, stomping on it with his foot, ripping all of the spooled tape out of it and tearing it to pieces.

Gazing at the cathartic release, she asks, "How often do you destroy your own forty dollars?" in a wry voice, but it doesn't disguise the gratitude on her face as she blinks to him out of the corner of her eye. Johnny gathers up the mess and takes it to the trashcan in the kitchen, dumping it all into the garbage. "Thank you," she says when he returns to the living room.

He is only an inch or two taller than her. He doesn't look like his father. She thanks the small mercies in heaven; she has known more of these mercies since Mary Eunice came into her life. "Do you hate me?" he asks, countering the question she asked him minutes ago.

"No." She studies him, the baby to whom she gave birth but whose mother she has never been. For the first time in their lives, she says to him, "I love you. Not the way your mother does. But I do. And I'm proud of you."

He has a soft expression, and as he holds her gaze, she wonders how he and Mary Eunice share no blood if they bear so much resemblance to one another. "I love you, too, Aunt Lana." He glances past her, out the window, to Mary Eunice's car pulling up into the driveway. "Can I hug you?" he asks.

Reaching down, she takes his hand instead. "I'd prefer if you didn't, right now."

He squeezes her hand. He understands.

…

"Lana!" Mary Eunice's cry shakes the house as she barrels through, running much faster than she intends to run. "Lana, Lana, Lana, it's here! The book! His book is here! Lana!"

She rolls off of the couch with a groan, her back popping as she puts aside the book she's been reading and takes off her reading glasses to squint at her girlfriend, holding a small package in a cardboard box. "I see that. Is that a reason to shout?" She rubs her eyes with her fists, trying to get the grit out of them. Mary Eunice plops on the couch beside her and slices the box open, flaying the cardboard sides. "Oh, this is a big book." She picks up the hardcover novel.

Mary Eunice, though, hasn't glanced at the novel yet. She holds the accompanying letter in her hand, opening the envelope to take it out. "Oh, Lana, read it to me, please? It'll take me so much longer than it'll take you."

"Of course." Lana kisses her temple and folds an arm around her shoulder as she unfolds the letter, adjusting her glasses back on her face. "Dear Mom," she reads aloud, "I know I always deliver my books to you in person, but Little Brown made my first book signing in Los Angeles with this publication, and I knew you wanted to be the first to read it. Thank you for all of the interviews. I hope it can do you a shred of justice."

Mary Eunice is already crying, and Lana pauses to try to kiss away her tears, but she receives a swat in return. "Don't stop reading!"

Laughing, Lana bites her lip. "I'm going to be back in Boston in three weeks for a book signing, and after June, I'll be home for good. Or until my next book gets published, anyway. Sam is under instruction to take you and Aunt Lana out for Mother's Day, since I won't be around. You're my best friend in the world, and I'm glad I can finally tell your story. I love you more than you will ever know. And I know Aunt Lana is probably reading this out loud to you, so I love you, too. Stay gold, Johnny."

The sound she makes, something between grief and joy, a squeal, shakes Lana to her core. "I'm so happy, Lana," she bawls, and Lana begins to fold up the letter before she spies a little note on the bottom of the letter, and she straightens it out again to continue reading.

"It continues—he says, 'PS: I know Aunt Lana skips reading the dedications because they're useless and sappy and the readers don't want to know about the author's personal life, but make sure she reads this one.'" Mary Eunice fixes a glare on her, and she shrugs. "Hey, I think dedications are stupid. I didn't dedicate my book to anyone but me, myself, and I."

"Bullshit, Lana, I read your book. It's dedicated to Wendy—and I know, because I read the dedications."

"You read it? After I read it to you?" This is news to Lana. She can't imagine Mary Eunice struggling through a whole novel with her poor reading skills without growing frustrated.

"Yes." Mary Eunice lifts the hardcover novel Lana had discarded in favor of reading the letter and tugs it into their laps. The cover pictures the silhouette of a nun with a red rose between her fingertips, and in elegant print, the title reads, On Loving My Mother: The Ode to and Biography of Mary Eunice McKee. Under that, the cover has his name in bold print. "Read the back?" Mary Eunice pleads.

Lana flips it over. "The eighth novel by prolific nonfiction journalist Johnny McKee, On Loving My Mother follows the life of a young woman broken by World War II and her story of survival and overcoming hardship to inspire the lives of everyone around her. McKee reaches into his own soul and past and airs out the dirty laundry of many in his family in this gritty, raw, and honest dedication about his mother's life. With this book, he crosses borders of memoir and biography, creating something fresh and new for the nonfiction genre."

Mary Eunice rests her chin on Lana's shoulder. "You gave him permission to, um, air out the dirty laundry, right?"

She chuckles. "Yes. I did. Many times. It's his truth to tell, not mine." She opens the front cover of the book, which bears his signature, as if Mary Eunice would ever want her copy to have enough value to make it worth selling. Lana flips to the dedication, like the letter instructed. "To my mother, Mary Eunice McKee, for loving me from the moment I took my first breath without any question, qualm, or condition, when she absolutely didn't have to and when I absolutely didn't deserve it. And to my godmother, Lana Winters, for learning to love me where I never would have learned to love myself, for taking care of my mother, and for giving me permission to share the secrets she always hoped to keep."

"Oh, Johnny…" Mary Eunice touches the page, as if she can feel his presence through the paper and ink. "I'm so proud of him."

Lana nuzzles into the soft texture of her blonde hair. "I am, too."

"Can we start the first chapter now?"

"You bet." They kiss, and Lana flicks the pages to the first chapter. With Mary Eunice curling up at her side, pressed warm against her, she keeps an arm hooked around her girlfriend; Mary Eunice uses one hand to support the book, so Lana only has to worry about turning pages when she's ready while her lover closes her eyes, tilts her head back, and listens. Planting another, final kiss to her temple, Lana blinks back to the page, and then, she begins to read.  

[imagine-that-one-thing]

This Crazy thing called love. || 3

Authors Note: Here is Part 3, I hope you guys enjoy it, sorry it is short, kinda have a headache and struggled to come up with a good idea for this one. :) xx

Part One

Part Two

You can find my blurb Master list HERE

“So is it over? Is it really it? You’ve given up so easily. I thought you loved me more than this.”

There is a lot that can be said about New York, from the amazing coffee shops I have accomplished to find, to the freezing cold air I am far from used too, but along with everything, I am lonely. I feel somewhat lost and disconnected with the world.

All that makes sense is my work and that is because I have thrown myself head first into it. I haven’t had too much time to take notice of the loneliness I have been harboring, I have been too busy with writing articles and doing interviews— I have barely even managed to get ahold of Harry— I guess the two of us have busy schedules. Well, so I thought.

This morning I was sitting in my temporary office, a lukewarm coffee in my hand, my eyes scanning my laptop screen as I began to think about the next piece of writing I was to write, revolving around the fundamentals of love. I much prefer to stick to the articles about daily issues, realistic and true celebrity news, but the next two weeks are designated to writing about love. Something I have yet to completely understand or feel.

Well, love was the last thing on my mind the moment a magazine was slapped down on my desk by assistant, her lips pursed into a straight line. I glanced down at the cover, and in that moment my heart ceased and the breath was taken from me. There he was, Harry, on the front cover of the magazine.

I didn’t read past the title, “You of all people know this is fake, just because it is printed, doesn’t mean it is reputable,” I slid the magazine to the edge of my desk, and my assistant shook her head at me.

“You know there is always a little truth to every lie.. There are pictures.” She informed me, torturing me when she opened to page six, broadcasting the pictures that explicated Harry and some girl on his arm, the two of them resembling very cosy and loving. Something I never see.

In that moment, I knew why it was arduous for us to get ahold of each other, it was because it was all one-sided. I presumed there was something, I believed that what I was commencing to welcome wasn’t just wine infused or one-sided. I thought I was playing on his mind just like he was playing on mine, I thought the struggle between our communication was because of the distance and time differences, turns out, it was because of another woman being in the picture. I thought the texts were going somewhere, I thought we were moving from friendship to relationship… I thought… I thought he felt the same things I had been feeling, but how unexpectedly was I incorrect. Entirely, bitterly, wrong.

I lie awake in my hotel room, the sheets gracing the skin of my body as I stare up at the ceiling attempting to figure out where I went wrong while a warm body breathes beside me. I tilt my head to glance at the man beside me, Christian, his dirty blond hair falling around him messily, his blue eyes dreaming tightly. 

I didn’t know what else to do after finding out about Harry… I found myself in the nearest bar, suffocating my sorrows in some Jack and Coke, something that Harry would usually order for me for fun, but tonight, I ordered it for myself because I was too late in realising that I was in love with him.

I didn’t know until today that I was in love with him, the man who orders my drinks the way I like them, the man who discovers different coffee shops for us to try, the man who gives me his jacket when I am too stubborn to bring my own, purely because it doesn’t go with my outfit. For so long he had been at the tip of my fingers and I took him for granted, I thought we were just best friends, I never apprehended the sparks, the smiles, and the wonderful times together were more than just friendly… I was blind, to say the least.

I overhear the sound of knocking at the door and I sit up gradually, my eyes flickering towards the time that reads Three in the morning. For a moment I frown, contemplating on whether to wake the man beside me up to open the door or to do it myself. I take in a deep breath and I slide out of bed carefully, throwing on the first thing I find, which just happens to be Christians shirt.

I open my hotel door, my eyes growing wide the moment I see the green-eyed and curly, messy haired, Harry in front of me. He looks me up and down, his brows furrowing before his mouth gapes and he steps back and shakes his head.

I don’t know what he is doing here, but I do know the bouquet in his hand is quite an indication of some sort.

My choice of attire is not appropriate at this point, fuck.

He stares at me, keeping eye contact for a moment but his gaze promptly becomes glazed with distaste. “Harry,” I breathe out in a whisper as he turns and begins to walk away, “Harry,” I beckon, his hand thrusting the bouquet of flowers to the floor, his tall figure refusing to stop with long strides towards the elevator.

I step back into my room, mentally cursing as my mind swirls with many different issues, one being that the man I crave just caught me in bed with another man. I race around the room, doing my best to be quiet in the dark before I grab the first pair of pants I can find and shoes before hurrying out of my room.

I don’t bother with the elevator, I hightail it down the stairs, praying that I can outrun the elevator, otherwise I have no chance at talking to Harry.

I reach the lobby of the hotel the bright lights somewhat hurting my eyes as I take a look around at the quiet and deserted area, the only person being the lady at the desk. “Hi, have you seen a tall guy walk out? Green eyes, brown hair? Uhm-” I stammer, trying to catch my breath after the damn stairs that didn’t show me any mercy.

She gives me a small smile, “He walked out about a minute ago, good luck.”

I flash her a smile before making my way towards the extensive glass doors of the hotel. I step into the chilly street, my arms crossing over my chest as the crisp air swirls around me.

“Harry, Harry wait,” I call out, managing to catch him in the freezing street, “Harry, please,” I beg, bustling after him, struggling to catch up to him.

To my surprise, his figure subsequently stops before nonchalantly turning around to face me with his brows knitting in a frown while his eyes burn darkly with hatred and irritation.

“I don’t have anything to say, I have to go,”

“Well, I do.” I press my hand to his arm, stopping him from turning away from me.

His eyes follow my hand before his arm stretches away from me, “Harry, let me explain,” I sigh, my heart sinking into my chest at his gesture. He has never pulled himself away from me before, never.

He manages a deadpan expression, “You don’t need to,” He mutters, his voice deep and clearly angered.

“Harry-”

He curls his lips with icy contempt. “No,” he shakes his head, “Have a good stay in New York, I’ll see you around,” he mutters,

“Harry, don’t walk away from me,” I whisper in a pleading tone, my eyes already beginning to welt up with tears. His eyes soften for a moment, but he doesn’t give in, instead, he marches away from me as though I am absolutely nothing to him.

I stand in the middle of the street, the crisp air taking control of my body as snow carelessly falls around me. I stand still, observing as he continues to wander away from me, not once bothering to turn around, not once giving me any sense of hope.

For the first time, I have fucked up with him.

I have battle scars increased across my heart, but for the first time, I feel as though my heart has been ripped out of my chest and hurled to the ground before being vigorously stepped on. I feel as though I can’t breathe, that the universe is against me in every way possible.

I think I lost my best friend and my lover, all in one.

Maybe this is why love is hard to attain, maybe Harry has always had good reason not to want commitment.

If this is what love feels like, I don’t want it...

___

The last three days have been nothing short of awful, getting out of bed has been harder than it has ever been, not to mention, writing about love when my heart is scarcely beating isn’t an easy job within itself. I would be lying if I said Harry hasn’t been on my mind this entire time, and I would just as equally be lying if I said I haven't ordered a Jack and Coke every night so far to help wash down the pain of regret, sorrow, and heartache.

I sit in the back of my cab, my eyes staring out the window, viewing the city, the town that is meant to hold many dreams, but for me, it has held nothing but a nightmare and an extra desire for alcohol. I’m just trying to drink the demons away—something to wash all the pain away.

I step out of the cab and take a deep breath, my eyes focusing on the entrance of the charity event that I was compelled to attend by my assistant, she was meant to attend and take notes for another article for me to write, but she insisted I needed to get out and claimed to be ‘too sick,’ to attend, conveniently, she had the perfect dress for me set out and everything in order for me to have no excuse to throw at her.

At first glance, I see nothing but a handful of people in a cluttered area, champagne glasses and laughter filling the space that was abandoned just a few hours. Everyone looks like a blur of inconsistencies to me, I feel like I have just been tossed out into the wilderness of the unknown. At a second glance, my heart halts… I am not sure how I am still breathing.

He’s here, the inconsistencies of swimming people abruptly become irrelevant because he is here.

He is the only one not blurred out within my vision... but I know he is probably here with someone else.

I go to turn my head to spare myself the heartache of having to continue to gawk at him from a distance, but his eyes abruptly meet mine and stay locked on my mind for longer than usual before he break the stare and turns back to the company around him. I feel myself sink further into an abyss of darkness and sorrow, the bar suddenly looking like my safe haven, but I share my thoughts away, I swallow my pride and paint a smile on my face.

Throughout the night, Harry and I share glances between each other, him seeming to be the one to ignore my every attempt at a smile. He may as well disregard me as a blanket being tossed to the side of the road after being dragged through the dirt.

I inhale a deep breath and blow out slowly before deciding to sashay myself over to him, angered and determined.

I grab Harry, his body stiffening as I clamp my fingers into his arm, forcing him to face me, “You don’t get to ignore me and treat me like shit, Harry.” I mutter harshly, outraged that he has the nerve to disregard me. Whether he is pissed off or not, he is still my best friend, years of friendship doesn’t go down the drain because of one stupid thing.

His nystagmic eyes scan the area around us before he draws the two of us away from the prying eyes of others, giving us privacy.

He allows me to step in first, still being a gentleman towards me.

He takes control of the silence rather quickly, “I don’t get to ignore you?” He scoffs, closing the door behind him, “I am not the one that went and fucked some random person. Guess that is why you could never return my calls,” He disputes, playing the victim.. He is only partially the victim; I am not the one parading a relationship all over the tabloids at the moment, he is.

“You never called me, I always called you and half the time you never answered, guess you were too busy with her.” I cross my arms over chest, “you can’t just show up to my hotel room with flowers and not have an explanation, what the fuck Harry?”

He stands with his back leaning against the door, his arms crossed in front of him as he furrows his eyebrows, “I clearly wasted my time going to your room that night, all I got out of it is that I am not the only one worried about commitment.”

“You can not make that assumption,” … “Why are you so pissed? You are with that girl,” I find myself waving my hands around in an attempt to get across my anger, distaste, and bitter disappointment.

“What girl?” he asks, irking my nerves as he tries to play stupid. He knows what damn girl, it is all over the media.

“The one from the tabloids,”

“Oh wow,” he sarcastically laughs, “You actually believed them?”

Frustration crinkles my eyes, “There were pictures, pictures don’t lie,”

“It was a PR, thought you would have figured that out, but you’re too busy laying in bed with someone else.”

“I didn’t know,” I dry respond, in my defence, I didn't.

He lifts his shoulders in a half shrug, “Well, now you do. I have to go,”

“Harry, can’t we talk?”

He lets out a harsh breath, “No, I have nothing left to say... “

“But, I do.”

Harry threads a hand through his hair, “Well, it is a little too late… It is clear to me, you have no intentions of being with me as more than a best friend… I thought by now you would have figured it all out. I love you, but you can’t see it.” His eyes flash with fury, defiance, and a small hint of lust before he droops his head towards the floor for a moment.

“Harry-” I begin, but I am swiftly cut off.

“Whatever you have to say, it is too late. I need to go.” He shuts me down, not wanting to hear anything that I have to say, even if it is to confess my feelings for him, feelings that have been harbouring inside me for quite a while, but I never was able to pursue.

I view as he steps out of the room, leaving me abandoned with warm tears descending down my cheeks.

The only man that has succeeded to make me perceive something unreal and desiring has wandered away from me without even knowing that I love him too...  

[anakins-27th-lightsaber]

Hey! Can I have some jegulus here, a long one but like anything about itttt. Sad, angst, it's up to you I just need more jegulus in my life pls pls pls and thanksss you're incredible!!❤️💚

Thank you, dear anon, you're amazing! So it's taken me a while to come up with something nice, and long, now there's something I can't really categorise, perhaps something like angst? Where their relationship is dysfunctional because Regulus is so messed up from home, and where he learns the behaviours he picked up there aren't helpful if you're trying to have a relationship. I was inspired by the song "Baby, can I hold you tonight" by Tracy Chapman, so I decided to add the lyrics to it. Hope you like it!"I love you, Regulus.""It's actually astonishing how your single brain cell is able to memorise such a long name, James", Regulus said irritably, without the smallest hint of sarcasm or remorse in his voice. Something was off about him, again. It was one of these days, and both boys knew just how much worse it could get."Pardon?!", James narrowed his eyes defiantly.Sorry"Ugh, never mind. Now come to bed."It's all that you can't say"Stop treating me this way, Regulus. You can't do this to someone you claim to be in love with.""Of course I can. Plus, I never did claim that. I like shagging you till you scream my name and beg for mercy. That's it."Years gone by, and stillThe Gryffindor swallowed thickly. "Why am I still with you?", he whispered, shaking his head incredulously."Because I'm in lo- I mean, because I'm all you have", the Slytherin scoffed.Words don't come easily"And you think I can't do better than you?""Of course you can't. You should be glad I'm putting up with you." He haughtily lifted his pointy chin, trying hard to look as self-assured as he possibly could; he was a good actor.Like sorry, like sorry"Alright, this is it, Black. We're through. Once again."Regulus panicked slightly, trying not to make it too obvious and to still sound condescending enough. "No! I mean, you're being thick. You really can't find anyone better! No one who's going to stay, like me-""Watch me.""James, no -""Anything to say?" James demonstratively shouldered his blanket and walked towards the door, resting his hand on the doorknob.Forgive me"I - no. Nothing."It's all that you can't say"So goodbye. And don't think I'm ever coming back."Years gone by, and stillRegulus glared at him, threateningly stepping towards him and coming so close James had to press his back against the wall. The younger boy was fuming, and so desperate he was willing to try anything to keep James from leaving him, even if it meant absolute embarrassment. "I don't think so. I know you are. As soon as you found out I'm the only one who will endure your presence without going insane. You'll be coming crawling back to me, begging me to take you back. No one will be able to make you happy the way I can.""Happy? Ha. I thought all you did was break me."Words don't come easilyRegulus winced, and his voice was thick with something he wasn't supposed to feel, and a teardrop that wasn't supposed to be there rolled down his face. He told himself he was purposely trying to take the other way out as a last resort, forcefully denying the fact that he wasn't in control of his emotions any more. His voice sounded as brittle as it felt when he spoke. "Stay. Please stay, James."Like forgive me"Why?", James spat.Forgive me"Because I- Oh, you know exactly, don't make me say it.""Say it." The Gryffindor crossed his arms."Come on, is that really necessary?", Regulus all but whined."It is. I keep telling you I love you. What's your reason for staying with me? Surely not compassion? And if you only wanted someone to shag, surely you'd find someone else to stick their cock inside you. So what is it? I'm curious", he finished sharply.Regulus slowly shook his head, his throat blocked by a tight knot of something he hadn't felt for a very long time, something real. "I- I can't."But you can say, Baby"I'm leaving, then. Forever."Baby, can I hold you tonight?"No! No, don't. I lo-""You love me?"Maybe if I told you the right words"I need you.""Need me?" He frowned.At the right time"I can't sleep without you, James.""So that's all you need me for?"You'd be mine"No, I-"I love you"I think I should go now.""I-"It's all that you can't sayJames whirled around. "What, Black? What is it?", he half shouted."Don't call me that. It- it hurts."Years gone by, and still"As all the times you hurt me? Funny."Words don't come easily"But I didn't mean to-"Like I love you, I love you"But you did.""I never wanted to."But you can say, Baby"Funny that's coming to your mind now it's too late, huh?"Baby, can I hold you tonightAnd Regulus let it happen, for the first time. He let his mouth say what he really meant to pronounce. "I'm sorry."Maybe if I told you the right words"Bit late to realise that now, isn't it?"At the right time"But I mean it."You'd be mine"Sure, and Hallowe'en's on Christmas this year, right?"Baby, can I hold you tonight"Why not? If you believe me one last time if I say I'm trying to change." His voice was husky."Oh, you are? I didn't realise", James hissed.Maybe if I told you the right wordsThe younger boy was shaking now, desperately trying to keep his voice from sounding too high-pitched. "I am. But I'm messed up. And I wish I could just say what I really mean. It's just not easy to me. And I need you. Because you're the only person who can make my nightmares go away when you're near me as I sleep, and you're the only one who makes me feel - like more than just an empty shell."At the right time"Is that so?", the Gryffindor huffed."Forgive me for being a prick most of the time.""All of the time, you're trying to say."You'd be mineSuddenly something within him melted and what felt like a comforting hot liquid filled his empty, dead veins. And Regulus tried being a little bit bold, for once. "I love you.""You do?" James was taken by surprise, his heart dropping into his stomach."I do love you. Forgive me for being such a prick. Please. You're everything I can still love. And I've been in love with you all this time. And now I'm saying it."You'd be mine"Alright, Regulus." And James went back to the bed and let himself fall onto it.And it was as though Regulus was trying to make up for everything he hadn't been able to say for the past three years; he was eager now to repeat it as often as possible, so maybe James would believe him and love him back. "I love you! I- James-!"James sighed. "Let's go to sleep now. You're looking as tired as I'm feeling.""I love you.""Sleep.""But I can't if you're not-""I am, though. Stop crying now. It's alright."The Slytherin's heart was pounding as if it was about to burst through his rib cage. "Really, it is?""No. I'm done with you", James snapped. "You're a fucked up little git. But I'm not leaving. At least not yet.""But I thought you-""Just come to bed." James irritably tried to pull his boyfriend towards him at his sleeve.The latter almost stumbled as he was half trying to keep standing still, half trying to leap right into James's arms and snog him as if his life depended on it. "Alright, but James-""See, you just don't stop loving people all of a sudden. That's it. And what's a bit more pain."Regulus shook his head eagerly, his eyes fixed upon James. "So you love me? Because I love you. Did you hear that? I'm finally saying-""Love you, too, but please, shut it now. I'm very mad at you, and rightfully so. You keep treating me like scum.""Sorry. I don't think you're -""Let's just sleep, I'm exhausted", the older boy cut him off."I'll try my best not to hurt you again, okay?", Regulus said quickly as he toddled towards James, who was still holding on to the sleeve of his pajamas."Whatever. Now shut up", James snapped. He was too broken to put himself back together this time; it had been the infamous last straw, and Regulus becoming all sweet and perfect all of a sudden wasn't helping; imagine being forced to keep loving what's tearing you apart. Imagine being hopelessly lost in your worst enemy's eyes because you've loved them too much, for too long, and now it's too late, you didn't leave while you still could; now they've got your heart racing, even though it's still shattered into pieces, and the life they slowly drained from your body, they're slamming it back into you so forcefully you're exploding, and it's all hurting so much more because now, you're alive enough for every cell of your body to feel all of it at once, and all you can still do is wish you could be numb again."Okay", Regulus said, although nothing was okay. "And I'm sorry!""I - get - it!", James pressed through gritted teeth."Yeah.""And Regulus, I love you. I guess.""I know for sure I do."And despite all the anger and the heartbreak and the voice inside his head screaming at him he deserved better, James cracked a smile for the boy, he couldn't help it. "When did you get so sappy?""I've always been - I thought you wouldn't like it", Regulus mumbled, blushing deeply."I would've certainly liked it better than being insulted and degraded constantly.""Do you like it best?", Regulus whispered barely audibly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and looking down at the floor in embarrassment."Do you?", James demanded sharply."It's hard. But makes my heart jump and my veins flutter. As if I'm alive now."James snorted. "Mine, too."The Slytherin hesitated. "I don't know who I am anymore, but this is the me I like best of all 'me's there ever were.""You're saying you don't know who you are?" James frowned."She took it away." Regulus pressed his lips together."I'm sorry. Just be free.""Free?""Become your own self and do whatever feels best.""Alright."Regulus kissed James on the lips. Softly and not harshly for the very first time since they'd started snogging just for the laughs, and finally it was actually serious. It was being in love and sharing something only they could share."I'm sorry you thought you had to hide around me", James breathed, almost stunned by the touch."Not your fault.""Whatever. Let's sleep now. I'll keep you close.""Until forever?" Regulus crawled under James's blanket that smelled just right and wrapped it around his way too skinny body."Until you mess up again", James corrected, hugging the whole bundle that was Regulus and the blanket."Is that a promise?""Yeah, I guess.""So it's forever."The Gryffindor snorted. "We'll see. Depends on you."Watch me, Regulus thought to himself, then fell asleep in his lover's arms, as always.You'd be mine

[amylillian22]

Nightmares – Theo Raeken AU Imagine

Requested by kalista-rankins : Can I request a Theo imagine based off yesterday's episode when Theo keeps having the night terrors (I guess that's what I should call it) with his sister but at the time he's sleeping in bed with the reader since she got him all cleaned up earlier that day after getting him out of hell with Liam. Theo sorta wakes up but still thinks he's in his night terror so instead of the reader he sees his sister and he attacks her. The reader thinks she's about to die because Theo looks like he wants to kill her and she's trying her best to pull him back to reality (not sure if you want the reader to bring him back to reality or she's not strong enough to wake him up so someone else comes in and saves her while fighting Theo off). The reader could have severe/serious injuries and ends up in the hospital but pulls through and is at first afraid of Theo but later makes amends with him and forgives him since she loves him?

Warning: Reader being attacked.

Word Count: 1,975

My Teen Wolf Masterlist

I couldn’t sleep as I rolled over to my side and looked at the boy sound asleep next to me. The moonlight beamed through my bedroom window and over his beautiful face. I still found it hard to believe Theo was back. My little brother and his girlfriend decided to bring him back from hell tonight, thinking Theo could help us with The Ghost Riders.

I had no idea what Liam and Hayden were up to. I was in Canaan with Scott, Lydia, and Malia most of the day. When we came back, Theo was standing in the middle of Scott's kitchen covered in dirt. It wasn't easy fighting Malia back from hurting Theo. Nor was it was easy to help Liam convince Scott that sending Theo back would be a mistake because Theo could help save everyone and bring Stiles back with his knowledge about The Wild Hunt and The Ghost Riders.

After everyone cooled off and agreed to let Theo stay, I took him back to my house to clean up and spend the night. I had just gotten him back after three months of thinking I'd had lost him forever. I wasn't about to let him go again. I'd do anything to keep him here with me.

Theo was in a deep sleep as his chest rose and fell at an even pace, a light snore coming from the back of his throat every now and then. He looked so tired with the dark circles underneath his eyes and the hard lines across his forehead. I couldn't imagine what Theo had been through and as much as I wanted him to tell me, I didn't want him to explain it to me on his first night back.

Theo began to stir as his breathing quickened. His eyebrows were furrowed together as he shook his head. "No," he whispered. "Please... don't…no..."

"Theo?" I whispered back, slightly nudging his shoulder. "Babe?"

"Tara, don’t!" Theo whispered a little louder than before, as tears began sliding down from the corner of his closed eyes.

My eyes widened, realizing Theo was dreaming about being back in hell with his dead sister. I squeezed his shoulder and shook him hard. "Theo, baby. Wake up. It's just a dream." He wouldn't budge. He kept whispering her name and shaking his head. I straddled his waist, my knees beside his hips as I leaned down and held his face. I slightly yet gently slapped his cheek. "Theo! Wake up!"

Theo's eyes flew open as his hand wrapped around my neck, his claws piercing through my skin. A gasp escaped from the back of my throat as my hands grapped Theo's hand on my neck, trying to pry it off. Something warm and thick slid down my neck, making me believe it was my blood. 

"Theo," I gasped. His electric yellow eyes glowed in my dark room as his claws dug deeper into my neck.

"You can't kill me, Tara," Theo gritted between his sharp teeth. “You can’t have my heart.”

“No,” I gasped as I realized he was still in his dream, in some sort of trance, and I had no idea how to pull him out of it.

I swallowed hard, which hurt like hell, and braced myself for what I was about to do. Pushing the thought of the pain that was about to come, I yelled as loud as I could. "LIAMMMMMMMMMMMM!" Tears prickled down my cheeks as the pain from yelling coursed through my neck and spread down my body.

Within seconds my bedroom door flung open, followed by Liam shifting and lunging towards Theo in full werewolf form. The last thing I remembered was feeling Theo’s claws digging across my neck before everything faded to black.

***

It has been three days since Theo's first night back home. It's also been three days since I've been in the hospital, and it's been three days since I last saw Theo before he ripped my throat out. I know it was an accident. He didn't know what he was going. It wasn't his fault, and truthfully, Liam lunging at him with his hand still piercing through my neck didn't help either, but the look he had in his eyes terrified me. His eyes were filled with rage and hatred. He was so set on killing his sister again with no mercy and in cold blood. The look Theo gave me, or rather Tara, was something I knew I’d be haunted with in my nightmares for a while.

But three days is three days too long without seeing Theo. Liam told me it was driving him crazy. He was a mess. He felt extremely guilty for what happened. He didn't care if I didn't want to be with him anymore because he would understand why if I didn't want to anymore. He just wanted me to give him a chance to apologize and forgive him, as he never meant to hurt me.

Liam sighed as he squeezed my hand. I looked at him confused. He looked up from our hands and up at me. "You're lucky you're not a werewolf." 

I furrowed my eyebrows at him. "What? Why?"

"You don't understand how annoying it is to hear Theo pacing back and forth outside your room and reeking with so many emotions through these thin walls," Liam admitted. He gave me his puppy eyed look. "Can you please make it stop? As much as I hate him for putting you in here, can you just see him?"

"Liam, I want to, but," I quickly pulled my hand out of his hold. "I’m just not-"

"You don't even have to talk to him. Let him do all the talking." Liam suggested.

"Can you promise me something?" I asked.

"Anything."

"Can you please wait outside... you know, just incase I need you?" I looked down at my fingers to avoid seeing Liam and the sympathetic expression he would have on his face knowing I’m scared to see Theo after what he did to me.

"I promise I won't hurt you," Theo said as he slowly opened the door, obviously listening in on my conversation with my little brother. "Hell, Liam can stay in the room if you want. Whatever it takes for you to talk to me," he begged.

I hesitated, still refusing to look at Theo. Instead, I turned to face Liam. "Promise me you won't leave?"

Liam gave me a sympathetic look before he slightly nodded. "I'll be right over there," he pointed at the small worn out sky blue sofa in the corner of the room.

Theo slowly walked towards the hospital bed and stood next to the chair Liam was sitting on. From the corner of my eyes, his fingers trembled before rubbing his palms on his black jeans. I couldn't tell if he was nervous or scared, maybe a little bit of both.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have slept with you on my first night back and I should have at least explained what I’ve been through so you could have at least have an idea of what I’ve been dealing with.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The thing is, my sister tortured me everyday I was down there. It was like some sick and twisted parallel universe or something, where I’d wake up and find her calling my name. When I’d find her, she’d come after me and rip out my heart from my chest. After she killed me, I’d wake up and the whole nightmare would repeat, over and over again. Like it was a movie on loop. No matter how much I’d tried to change the scene, it always ended the same, me dying after she ripped my heart out.”

“You probably deserved it,” Liam mumbled to himself. I glared at him for being so inappropriate and inconsiderate. What Theo did to his sister wasn’t right, but what his sister did to him down there wasn’t any better either.

I looked down at Theo’s shoes, still unable to look at him. “Go on…” I whispered. 

Theo let out a small sigh as he sat down in the chair. His hands rested on the edge of the bed, no doubt asking for permission to hold my hand. I pulled my hands together to myself, still unable to look at him. Theo’s fingers drummed against the bed sheets as he continued, “That night I slept over, I wasn’t dreaming about it. I dreamt about Tara coming back to kill me. The look in her eyes… They were so cold, heartless, and vengeful. It was-“ 

“Terrifying,” I interrupted, finally looking up at Theo. “I know exactly what that looks like.” I bit my bottom lip, to keep it from trembling.

He looked worse than the night he came back. The circles underneath his eyes had darkened and he looked like he had been hit by a train. It was obvious he hadn’t gotten any sleep. Tears slowly slid down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” his voice cracked as he let out a shaky breath. “I love you, Y/N, and I never meant to hurt you. You have to believe me.” He finally reached out for my hand.

I flinched and pulled away from him. I battled my eyes, trying to fight the tears from falling down as well. “Theo… I can’t. I just can’t right now.” 

Theo pulled his hand away, biting his lip as he nodded. “I understand… It’s okay if you don’t want to be with me anymore…” He swallowed hard. “I just need you to forgive me…”

I shook my head, causing more tears to fall down Theo’s cheeks. He closed his eyes, afraid of what I was about to say next. I slowly leaned towards him and hesitated for a second before cupping his cheek. Theo sighed as he leaned into my touch and fluttered his eyes open.

“Theo… I didn’t mean I don’t want to be with you.”

“You don’t?” He whispered.

“You don’t?” Liam repeated, completely shocked.

I chuckled as I looked back at Liam, completely forgetting he was in the room. “Do you mind? I’d like to talk to Theo for a second… alone,” I gestured at the door for Liam to get out.

He cleared his throat as he stood up. “I think I’ll go get a snack from the vending machine. Want anything to drink?” I shook my head as Liam walked out.

I turned around to face Theo and pick up where I left off. “Theo, I want to be with you. I love you. I just got you back and I don’t want to lose you again.”

Theo let out a deep breath, relief flooding his veins. “You have no idea how good it is to hear you say that,” he gave me a small and soft smile.

“And I forgive you. I know it wasn’t your fault what happened that night…but…” His smile quickly disappeared as I hesitated. “I just need some time to trust you again. I’m not going to lie to you, Theo. I’m scared of you. You scared me that night, Theo.”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

“I know you are… so let’s just take it one day at a time.” 

“Kind of like we’re starting over again?” He asked confused.

I chuckled as I shook my head. “No, we’re not starting all over again. That would take too long. We don’t need to start at the beginning. We simply just need to take it slow, one day at a time. How does that sound?”

His shoulders finally relaxed as he exhaled deeply. “I think that’s a good idea. We’ve both been through a lot and we need to sort those things out, but I think we can do it… together, one day at a time.” 

I smiled at him. “Thank you, Theo.”

He shook his head. “Thank you for being so patient and understanding. I know I’m not the easiest person to be with, but-“

“Theo, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he smiled back at me, knowing we were just going to be fine. 

[jamlessness]

sketches, two.

pairing: yoongi x reader / reader x jungkook word count: 2.8k content: angst, parent!au.

one, two, three

I couldn’t sleep that night, just like many others after it. Five days passed since I found out about Luna and getting her mom to let me help them out somehow hasn’t been the easiest thing on the world. I’ve been also avoiding meeting the guys, specially Yoongi since God only knows what could have happened if I met him. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell him, but I had to remember myself of that every single time I thought about Y/N and it was a pretty huge part of my day.

I also don’t remember being this grateful about my occupation in awhile. Being a cartoonist allowed me to work wherever I wanted to and only concern about pleasing my clients and deal with deadlines, some stuff I was fairly good at - also some stuff I used in my favor so I could escape questions about missing the weekly gatherings  with the crew. 

The rain had barely stopped hitting my office’s window when my phone rang, impatiently against the table. I glanced at it and then looked back to the illustration I had just finished, surrounded by several others, deciding I could use of a break.

“I’m cold, I’m hungry and I’m at your door.” the well known voice said once I picked up the call, leaving me alone once her sentence was done.

I couldn’t hold a smirk, stretching myself before getting off the chair. As I paced, I realized I had actually missed Minhee more than I understood. She was my best friend and the only constant girl in my life. Once she told me it was because that’s the super power of a sister and I couldn’t agree more. The death stare she gave me once I opened the door only made my smile grow as I watched her pass straight by me and throw herself on the couch with that always bossy posture of hers - also known as just a mask for when she gets actually mad for no reason.

“Feeling better already?” I grinned as I crossed my arms, standing in front of her. Minhee just acted as she ignored me, making herself even more comfortable on the couch.

“I will once I punch you in the face.” she snapped back, still not looking at me. I could ask but I knew she was going to tell me the reason right away, so I just rose my eyebrows. “How come can you leave me alone with those idiots twice in a week? Don’t you know how much they tease me when you’re not around?” she whined as the spoiled brat she was, finally looking up at me.

“Ain’t that the whole point of being the maknae?” as soon as I said that, I expected a pillow to fly to my face but it never happened. That fact woke me up, so I analyzed the situation: all of a sudden, Minhee had concerned and concentrated eyes towards me, with what seemed like a pitiful expression coming along. “What?” I asked, taken aback.

“Why are you lying to us, Guk?” even though she’s known by firing away her thoughts, I never saw this coming.

Won’t deny I considered lying again but if there was someone I could count on this earth, it was Minhee. The trust was mutual. In fact, I was the one she first opened up about her last relationship - what I like to call the biggest mistake she ever made - to and countless times since high school. We told each other everything and nothing at all. That’s what best friends are for, right?

“I met someone I haven’t seen for a long time…” I said as I took the place by her side. She turned to face me as I kept my eyes on the floor. “And she had been through a lot of stuff and is still doing it though, it hurts me in so many ways I can’t even say!” I glanced at Minhee and she just nodded, telling me she understood. “But that’s not even the worst part!”

“What’s that?” by the way her voice kept up, I realized how my tone was actually high - almost as high as what she told me on the phone, a couple of minutes ago. I smiled while looking down, staring at her on the next second.

“We’re hungry, right?” she smiled sweetly back at me while nodding. Our telepathy working its wonders.

“And curious!” 

We could have ordered something but it was pretty clear that taking some fresh air would be actually good for me. So it didn’t take long for us to check in this coffee shop downstreet.

Meanwhile, Minhee updated me about that last meeting with the crew - Namjoon’s new girlfriend, Taehyung’s new ideas for vacation, the new jokes Jin came up with and all the theories about me going missing. Last, but not least, the fact Jimin simply couldn’t act like he hadn’t something big planned for his sister’s birthday.

“You gotta give him some credit for trying!” I said as she told me about how he almost gave it away - probably the whole plan - and then completely went silent for the rest of the night.

“Maybe I should but wouldn’t be me if I actually did.” Minhee defended herself and I couldn’t disagree. “I’m having my own celebration for sunday lunch and your hyungs expect you there.” she threw her words at me while turning her attention back to her latte and I cocked an eyebrow.

“Just the hyungs?” I teased and she shrugged.

“I can’t really force you to go and it’s not like you’re that important anyway…”I chuckled, nodding at her words.

“Sure. I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” I promised and she just nodded, allowing the silence to fall comfortably between us.

I’ve known Minhee for almost my entire life, I must say, so it was pretty easy to tell that 1. it was a big deal for her and 2. it was a big deal for me. What she meant by “her own celebration” was time dedicated to her closest friends which included the bunch of guys from the neighborhood she walked to the school with when she was younger - aka me and hyungs.

If my memory serves me well, Minhee has been doing it since we were thirteen and it had something to do with her independence from the parties her parents planned for her. Now we’re all adults, on route to our own dreams and living in different parts of Seoul, but that’s a tradition we haven’t broke since then.

I couldn’t help a smile at recalling how she dragged each one of us out of our houses to join her little celebration, threatening us with punches if we refused to follow her - Yoongi was the only one to actually get those.

The thought of him made me sigh. I needed to open up before I exploded and there was no one else in this universe to do this with besides Minhee.

“Are you ready to hear?” I asked and she nodded, her eyes fixed on me, expectant. “I’m desperate to help this person that has the tallest pride in the world. How do I do it without making her push me away?”

“If you didn’t mention it was a girl, I could easily tell you were talking about Yoongi oppa.” she frowned and I sighed again. If only she knew how close her guess was. “But since we’re talking about a girl, which makes things pretty easier, you gotta be patient. Stay by her side through and through and at the right time, something will come up and you’ll know what to do.” I nodded, taking mental notes of her words. I’ve learned a long ago that you can never underestimate Minhee’s wisdom - just the lack of it when it comes to choosing guys to date.

“I’ll need help working on that…” I pointed and she smiled, sweetly.

“Who said you won’t be getting any?” her statement made me wink in response as I took a sip of my own drink. “But something you should keep in mind it’s to not push her on doing anything. Leave it to fate to find the right time for you to act.”

“You’re the best.” I said a matter of fact and Minhee shrugged it off, knowing exactly that she was.

If thinking about being patient was already hard, doing the real thing would be basically a nightmare and I knew that. Guess that’s the reason why universe decided to conspire on my favor for a change because just a couple of days later, I woke up to a text message from Y/N.

Luna asked me to invite you for dinner It’s okay if you’re too busy

I rushed myself to reply before she could change her mind, confirming my presence and just a few minutes later, I’ve got a response, telling me to show up around 7 o’clock.

It was saturday and all I had to do was to deliver some projects to some clients. So, for the rest of the day, I was supposed to work on my patience. But once I was back home, all I could was to think about Luna and her sweet cheeks.

My mind recalled me of that doll she wanted but Y/N would kill me and kick me all the way out of their lives if I got her the doll out of the blue. So my brain started to work on something I could give Luna, I owed her that, I wanted to do something for her.

Two seconds later and an idea crossed my thoughts and I found my heart full of gratitude for my skills and occupation for a second time on the last week. Almost immediately, I started to work on the gifs I would bring Luna tonight.

“Oppa is here!” I heard a squeak coming from behind the door and my lips stretched on a sincere smile to the thought that she was as happy as I was about this.

Balancing the cake box in my hands, I bowed once Y/N opened the door. She didn’t seen very pleased to see me and it was at least understandable.

“You’re here.” she did her best to smile and I couldn’t contain my own, trying to make the situation comfortable for her.

“I said I would.”

Before any of us could say anything else, Luna came breaking through and taking me by the hand so she could properly welcome me in her home - apparently, the first time I’ve been here didn’t count since she was asleep. Y/N took both the cake and then my bag, placing them somewhere I didn’t had the chance to know since I was still at the mercy of my little tour guide. 

Dinner happened right away. Literally. Luna insisted that I was hungry from the “trip��� and the “tour” and said I shouldn’t wait any longer than the prayer to have a good meal. So once we were all sat, she said thanks in the cutest prayer I’ve ever seen and we were allowed to eat.

No wonder to see her leading the conversation during dinner. Luna covered up from the reason why they made italian food for dinner - Y/N’s endless fascination for Italy - to the fact that she had won an argument with older kids in her school.

“Just because they’re bigger, doesn’t mean they’re smarter.” Luna reasoned and I smiled, unable to disagree.

For a few times, I stole glances of Y/N, finding my heart warmed up by the way she look at her daughter. You could see all the love of the world in her eyes when they were fixed in Luna and it was such a beautiful thing it made me wonder if my own mother ever looked at me that way. I soon concluded that probably not. I wasn’t her only source of happiness.

I cursed myself mentally just when this thought hit me. It was a rude, cruel, awful thing to assume and telepathically, I was apologizing to Y/N for having such a kind of thought.

Dessert time came and it me happy the fact Luna liked the cake so much. It was a blind shot and to find out that vanilla was her favorite made me proud of myself for simply thinking of it.

She was just about to come with another story from her school when the blackness filled out the room. On the next second, there was a tight grip in my arm and a heavy breathing coming from the same side.

“Luna?” I called, unsure and soon a sniff followed the troubled breathing going on by my side. My eyes widened in the dark and instinctively, I pulled her to my lap, wrapping her in my arms. “You’re okay, Luna. Everything is okay.” I spoke on her hair, rocking my body lightly in attempt to calm her down. Her heart was beating so fast I could feel it, filling me with angst. She was so scared and it simply broke me. “Oppa’s here, you’re just fine!” I assured and a noise came from across the place we sat.

The next second, we were able to see the the flashlight Y/N had just turned on, placing it in front of us and giving me a partial vision of the room.

“Thanks for for that.” it was the first word she directed to me since dinner begun and I can’t deny it kinda felt weird. But the fact that she tried to take Luna from me and the kid just held me closer got all my attention, leaving no space to think about her words.

Surprised, I stared at the spot I assumed Y/N’s eyes were supposed to be and I saw her silhouette pull back a bit.

“I wanna stay with oppa!” Luna mumbled against my chest and I couldn’t find words to describe what I felt at that moment.

Somehow, I knew Y/N had her eyes on me so I rushed to nod and make her see that it was completely fine by me.

“Okay…” she sighed, a small smile slipping through her voice as she took a seat by our side.

We spent a few moments in silence until it finally hit me. I had the  perfect way to cheer Luna up so the night wouldn’t be a complete fiasco.

“Noona?” I called and Y/N simply replied with a mumble. “Could you please get me my bag?” the noises that came right away told me she had just got up to get it. “I got you something, Luna…” I spoke gently as I heard her mother coming back. “It’s a gift for you.” she didn’t say a thing but I knew she was listening.

“Here.” Y/N handed me my bag, to which I thanked quickly.

While still holding Luna with one arm, I used the other to open my bag and get her the gift wrapped up in lavender paper.

“This is for you.” I told her, putting the present in front of her and slowly, she spread her arms to reach for it.

“Thank you, oppa.” her voice was almost a whisper, still scared and I smiled honestly in order to maker her more comfortable.

“You are very much welcome!” I replied. “Why don’t you open it?”

Mutely, she did as I suggested and I took the chance to motion to Y/N that she should bring the flashlight closer.

I felt my nerves showing up when Luna was able to take a good look at the cover and so did her mom. I felt that before when I handed some big projects, but it still felt different and I knew why: none client of mine could compare to Luna. None of them had a place in my heart like she did.

“What does it say?” she asked, curiously placing her fingers over the title letters.

“It says The adventures of Princess Luna.” Y/N answered, her voice giving away some emotion.

“Luna?” she looked up at me quickly and, even though I’m sure she could barely see me, I nodded. “Could you read it for me, oppa?” her voice had a bit of excitement and the fact that she wasn’t paying that much attention to the darkness any more made me feel useful, somehow.

“Are you ready?” I asked as Luna made herself more comfortable, laying her back in my chest with her eyes glued to the comic book I made specially for her.

I kept telling the story of how Princess Luna saved her whole kingdom in the most different situations until she fell asleep in my arms.

Y/N only said one word after Luna was safe and sound in dreamland. Thanks. And it took no genius to sense the tone of farewell engraved in it.

Once again, I left that small room feeling like I did less than I actually should.